


Don't You Worry

by Launchycat



Series: Hell or High Water [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Different Universes, Gen, Two Crowleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 29,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Launchycat/pseuds/Launchycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby and the boys are sent some unexpected help from an unknown source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here's something I've been working on for a little while now (and will hopefully keep working on for some time).
> 
> Crossover fic set post-GO!Apocalypse and mid-SPN!Apocalypse, right at the end of "Abandon All Hope" (s5e10). So, before starting this, I'd advise both reading Good Omens (you might be able to get by without it, but you'll miss out on references and it's a much better read than anything I can manage anyway) and watching SPN at least up to that point plus a couple more episodes (ideally the whole season). Sorry if it starts off a bit depressing, but that seemed like a good bit to start things with to both give a sense of where things go in the timeline and what the characters' state of mind is likely to be.
> 
> I intend to make these into a series of stories as opposed to one long fic, so I'm provisionally christening the AU "Don't You Worry" until I can come up with something better. I'm not great at naming things though, so suggestions are more than welcome.

The house was silent, save for the crackling of fire and the sound of the television.

_We've just received an update that the governor has declared a state of emergency for Paulding county, including the towns of Marian, Fetterville and Carthage..._

There were three people in the study - two standing, the third sat in a wheelchair. All facing the fireplace, none paying heed to the news report.

_...The storm system has reportedly touched off a number of tornadoes in the area..._

They stood around the fire in silence; no tears, no sighs of sorrow, but grief nonetheless still clear on their faces. No thoughts raced through their minds, save feelings of loss and hopelessness.

A slightly awkward family photo went into the fire.

_...Death tolls have yet to be estimated, but state officials have said the loss of life and property to be staggering..._

Not too many hours ago, Cas, Sam, Dean, Ellen, Jo and Bobby had been posing for that same photo, unsurprisingly nervous and fully aware that they were living what could well be their last few hours on Earth. Come morning, they'd be embarking on a near-suicidal dash to kill the Devil and stop the Apocalypse.

Bobby and the two brothers watched as the photo was consumed by the flames, a mock-up funeral for those who had no bodies left to burn. They hadn't expected everyone to come back alive. But they had hoped that the sacrifice would amount to something. Instead, Lucifer still walked the Earth, and Death had been unleashed upon the world.

Jo and Ellen had died, and it had been for nothing...

 

\--------------

None of them heard the sound of footsteps suddenly making their way across the kitchen floor. No one still noticed someone walking past the table riddled with glasses and empty bottles, and into the study.

It even took a good few moments to gain a reaction when the newly-arrived presence finally spoke.

“Sam? Dean?”

As if waking from a dream, the older hunter and the boys finally turned their heads, still numb from grief, but gradually remembering themselves and instinctively trying to reach for weapons that weren't there.

In the middle of the room stood a young boy, roughly eleven years old, staring at them with large, inquisitive eyes, his hands firmly gripping a wooden box.

It was Sam that eventually broke the silence.

“Jesse?”


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Jesse?_ ” Bobby whispered to Dean. _“As in...”_ Dean nodded.

The brothers had filled him in after their first encounter with the boy.

Some cultures would have referred to Jesse as a Cambion. Others, as the Antichrist. As the child of a human and a demon, what he was, particularly now, while Lucifer walked the Earth, was unbelievably powerful. The first time they had met, he had been reshaping reality to fit his own beliefs without even being aware of it. By the time Sam and Dean were investigating, a girl had literally scratched her brains out after a prank involving itching powder, and a man had died after being electrocuted with a toy buzzer. Other casualties had soon followed. And according to Castiel, this was only the tip of the iceberg. With a single thought, he could have wiped out out the entire host of Heaven.

But instead, he had chosen not to get involved in the war at all and had gone into hiding. Which made the fact that he was now once again standing in front of them more than slightly concerning.

“I still don't want to fight,” responded the brown-haired boy, who sounded less like he had guessed their concerns and more like he was cutting them off before they asked him to join them again.

“That's fine,” a still-confused, but sympathetic Sam said, kneeling down to almost (but not quite) Jesse's level. “But what are you doing here?”

“A friend asked me to get something for you,” the boy answered, stepping towards him.

“A friend?” Dean finally joined in.

“He told me I didn't have to get involved,” Jesse continued, as if reading from a list he wanted to get through in a hurry, “only get you guys some help.”

He handed the younger Winchester the box; Sam took a moment to study it. It was slightly worn, but still seemed solid – thick wood with reinforced corners and a strong-looking lock-, and would have been quite plain-looking if not for carvings covering its surface. There were a few on the sides (Sam recognised some of them as warding runes), and three on the top: a pentagram in the centre of the lid, and two stylised initials, one on either side: “S” and “C”. The boy pulled out a key (strung on a piece of cord, slightly tarnished and similarly plain) from his pocket and laid it on top.

“He said you'd know what to do with these. Something about finding a _Craw-lee._ ”

“ _ **Crowley?**_ ” Sam and Dean burst out in unison, Dean's voice more raised than Sam's*.

“Just how's finding that bastard going to help?” the older brother went on.

“That's all he said.”

“Hang on,” Sam said, making efforts to keep calm in front of Jesse, even though he could very much relate with how Dean felt on the matter. “Jesse, who told you all this? Who's _he_?”

“I've told you all you're supposed to know,” came a hurried reply.

“What we're _supposed_ to-”

“He said you'd figure out the rest.”

“But...”

“Anyway, I need to go. If you see my parents, tell them I said hi.”

“Jesse, w-” Sam began, reaching out for the boy's arm out of reflex**, only to grasp at nothing as, a moment later, he vanished in front of their eyes.

“-ait...”

Behind him, Dean and Bobby were just as puzzled. After a long pause, it was Bobby's turn to break the silence.

“Either of you care to explain what the hell just happened?”

  
  


*Not because Sam was any less angry, but because a) he was faced with a young, worried-looking boy who needed reassurance and help, and b) he had managed to work up enough presence of mind to realise that startling the already-nervous child with godlike abilities was a bad idea.

**Before he had a chance to realise _just_ how bad an idea that would have been.

\-------------

In a sunny orchard that may have been nearby, but may just as well have been infinitely far away, Jesse appeared out of thin air*. He glanced around, eyes wandering until he came across a familiar face.

“You weren't long.”

“You're the one who said _“_ keep it short”. I still think it'd be easier to just tell them what's going on,” Jesse replied. He hadn't much liked being lied to, and as such hadn't been too keen on keeping things from someone else. Even if the someones in question had done a fair bit of lying themselves.

“Not with those two it isn't. You tell them the whole story, they'll take that box and chuck it in a river**,” came an answer from the other, “You want them to take what help you're giving them, it's best you don't tell them what the help'll be like.”

Jesse still looked a bit hesitant, but didn't argue further. He knew little of the Winchesters himself, but what he had pieced together did ring true with what he was hearing. And, as always, his friend did a very good job of being convincing.

“It'll all work out. You'll see.”

  
  


*assuming the place did, in fact, have air.

**or worse yet, use it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

_November 1st, 1983_

_My boys,_

_It's probably been a long time since you last saw me. I don't know how much the future is going to change from what I know of it, but, if you're reading this, chances are some things have stayed the same. Which means I'm not there to help you through this. I'm sorry._

_I wish things could have gone differently. I wish I could have given you the normal, quiet life you deserved. I wish that you didn't have to go through all the things you have, and all the things you're going to. Try as I might, it doesn't look like I can stop any of that from happening. But there's still one thing I can do._

_I've been asked to keep something safe for you. I'm told that it's best you work out what to do with what's inside on your own, but it shouldn't be too hard to put together. On a normal day, I might have used what's in there and sent Crowley back to Hell myself. But this isn't a normal day even by a long shot, and, anyway, there's far too much at stake. So I'm leaving it all up to you._

_You've got a hard road ahead of you, but I know that together you're going to make it. Things might not have turned out the way I wish they had, but you've done some amazing things with your lives, and I'm glad to call you my sons. I know you're going to keep making me proud._

_Love,_

_Mom_

  


  
\------------

After Jesse's unexpected arrival (and departure), Bobby and the boys had returned to mourning their lost friends. The box was forgotten on the table for a while, among the bottles and glasses. But eventually, their drive to keep going returned (if not for their own sake, then at least for that of the other two*), and someone opened it.

Inside, folded neatly, they had found one very unexpected letter. Underneath it, a scroll detailing an unknown ritual, two large vials of liquid (which took up most of the space), one yellow, oily and translucent, the other a thick, dark crimson. There was also a small pouch with a number of reagents in it, including several herbs, a number of gems, what appeared to be bone fragments, two small, off-white feathers and a few ancient-looking coins.

Several arguments were had over what to do with the suspicious gift. Eventually, the boys finally left Singer Salvage, the three of them in mutual agreement to hold off from making any decisions without the other two. A few weeks later, an old acquaintance called in asking for a favour, and Sam finally convinced Dean to take on a case again. Not long after that, as they drove away from a psychiatric hospital and a job well done, they got the call from Bobby.

Presently, they were back at the house, and from the inside of the study came the same argument (albeit with more lowered voices and less swearing) they had had a few weeks prior.

“... so we're just going to blindly accept help from some _“mysterious benefactor”..._ ” The older hunter was sat in a wheelchair to the side of his desk. “...delivered by the damned Antichrist, no less?”

“He's a nice kid,” Sam chimed in, putting a folder down on a shelf. He didn't seem particularly keen on going through with the instructions in the box either, but also he didn't feel like sticking the blame on a boy who not only hadn't had a say in who he was, but, when pressed, had ultimately made the right choice.

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Look, I don't like this any more than you do,” Dean said from his spot by the kitchen door, “But we're running low on options here. The Colt's useless, not to mention gone, the Devil's still out there. And so's Death and probably a lot more of Hell's finest. We could use all the help we can get.”

“But getting help from a _demon_? After everything we've been through?” Sam said the word with a mix of guilt and disgust, the anger clearly building up inside of him. “And not just any demon, either.” He stopped, but there was no need to say what all of them were already thinking. _The demon who had double-crossed them already, making them think they had a chance of killing Lucifer. The demon who had made them lose Jo and Ellen._

Dean got where they were coming from. He didn't like it either. Had things been a bit less desperate, he might have been the first to suggest they stick the damned box in a fire. Then again, he'd read the letter that had come with it. So maybe not.

“I'm not saying we take him out to dinner. But we don't have much else to go on right now. We get him here, we can get some answers out of him. Find out what Lucifer's next move is.” He wasn't quite sure what they'd do afterwards, but that was a thought for a different time. “Worst case scenario, we gank the bastard. One less black-eyed** son-of-a-bitch*** to worry about. I'm just saying, mom wouldn't have tried to get to get this to us if it wasn't important.”

Since she'd died in the nursery all those years ago, Dean had seen her twice. Once, as a ghost in their own house, where she had sacrificed herself to once again protect Sammy, this time from an angry spirit. The second time, three years later, when Cas had taken him back in time to witness her first encounter with Azazel. She hadn't known who Dean was, nor had he told her anything about the future, so the older sibling had no clue just how she knew about who they'd grown up to be, or what they were currently up against. The letter did its best to be vague on that front (and on most fronts, really). He didn't know if she was worried about changing the future or if there was someone else (Azazel perhaps, or maybe Crowley himself) watching her. But he knew that she wouldn't have gone along with anything she thought would hurt them ****.

“If it _was_ your mom that sent the thing in the first place,” came a sceptical reply from their foster father.

“I had a look through some old letters dad kept in the locker in New York,” Sam conceded. “Had an old contact of dad's double-check them too. The wear looks about right for the age of the letter, and the writing seems genuine.”

“So what you're saying is it's a really good fake.”

“That, or it's the real deal,” Dean pressed. He didn't know why, but no matter how wary he was about everything else involving that box, the letter itself just felt _right._ “It's not like we haven't seen a lot weirder.”

Bobby sighed. He'd been focusing his own research on the ritual itself, and, while some runes and seals remained completely undecipherable (the rune in the middle of the summoning circle might as well have been a scribble for all the luck he had had finding a match), he'd been able to piece enough of it together that he knew he was looking at something resembling the bastard child of a devil's trap, a summoning spell and a binding ritual. Whatever they _did_ get in that circle (he still wasn't convinced it'd be as simple as a gift-wrapped Crowley) wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry, which gave the whole thing a vague semblance of safety.

And, as much as he didn't want to admit it, the boy had a point. The End was very damn nigh, and they'd used up all sensible options, and then some. If there had ever been a time for crazy plans, now was it.

“For the record, I still say this is a bad idea”, he said, and reached out to open the box.

  


*And, possibly, as an afterthought, for the sake of the world in general.

**Technically, red-eyed, but the subject had never come up during their brief encounter, and Dean was presently too preoccupied to contemplate the convenient colour-coding of demons.

***Also technically a son-of-a-witch.

****There was one instance (involving a deal with a certain yellow-eyed demon) where she had gone along with things she _didn't_ know would hurt them and which had inadvertently gotten them into this mess in the first place, but nobody's perfect *****.

*****Incidentally, not going along with it would have also meant that they would never have been born, thus leaving the fate of the world in quite possibly less competent hands. So it all turned out for the best. Kind of.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere else entirely, two different individuals were enjoying a pleasant breakfast at one of the outdoor tables of a small café. It was a charming little place, where the waiters had genuine smiles on their faces and the meals were not only well-prepared, but came in portions that could sate someone larger than a young child. More impressively, in spite of being located in Central London (albeit on a small side street), it had so far somehow managed to escape the notice of the franchises that had bought up most of its neighbours.

“... so I _told_ him that I didn't stock that sort of reading material, and he was probably looking for the shop next door,” one of the two was saying. He wore oval-shaped reading glasses, had a round face framed by blonde, curly hair, and looked roughly middle-aged.

“M-hm...” the other muttered, staring absent-mindedly at his plate, seemingly preoccupied by something else. He was thinner, younger-looking and had black hair; he wore sunglasses even though a slight drizzle was already splashing around them, and the sky overhead looked as though it was considering raining actual cats and dogs*. He also presently looked slightly worried.

“... but he kept insisting that no, this was the address, he'd seen it in the paper the other day, and was I sure I didn't have what was looking for?”

“U-huh...”

“Crowley, my dear, is something wrong?” Aziraphale finally asked. He knew all too well that his bookshop anecdotes didn't interest his companion quite as much as they did him** (he'd still listen, the dear), but he had been talking for a good twenty minutes, and by now he would have expected at least one attempt at a change of subject, if not a few sarcastic comments and a suggestion to append “You're looking for the other shop” to the sign on the door.

“Hm?” the demon raised his head slightly.

“You look like there's something on your mind.”

There was a pause as Crowley frowned, sparing the busy street a glance. The Bentley was parked on the other side of the road, next to a former “No Parking” sign that had very recently re-specialised as a lamp post.

“We should be thinking about leaving London,” he said, with the tone of someone who had been considering this for a while and wasn't happy with the conclusion.

Aziraphale let out a small gasp. Barring some field trip assignments from their respective sides or the occasional holiday somewhere sunnier, they had been living in London for a very long time now. They both enjoyed the life here, and it had only gotten better over the years. There were good restaurants, and great theatres, and a few well-informed rare book dealers, and there was always something interesting going on somewhere in the city if you knew where to look. Granted, there was also the traffic, and the noise, and the crowds of people always in a hurry to get somewhere, as well as an assortment of other things, but the good outweighed the bad, and being of angelic stock meant you could easily avoid most unpleasantries the city had to offer. It was, in as much as any place on Earth could be described as such by beings not native to it, home.

“Think about it,” his companion pressed on in response. “Do you really think Above or Below are going to sit quietly forever and pretend that we had nothing to do with six thousand years' worth of planning going down the drain? ”

There was thunder in the distance, and it began to pour. Neither of them seemed to notice.

“Well, everything else seems to be back to the way it was,” Aziraphale replied before the thought of his books crossed his mind. “Er... More or less. And Adam said there was nothing to worry about.”

Thanks to their friendly neighbourhood Antichrist, for most of the world the almost-Apocalypse was nothing more than a half-forgotten memory at the back of their minds. For them, though, it was still as vivid as it had been when it had first taken place less than a week ago. When it was all over, they had both been grateful for a bit of peace and quiet. Aziraphale had taken time to catalogue his newly-gained books (they may not have been the sort of books his collection normally consisted of, and he was planning to sell them eventually, but that was no excuse to be disorganised). Crowley had indulged in copious amounts of sleep and a spot of light wiling***. But now the initial shock had passed, and the latter's well-honed self-preservation instinct had started to kick in.

“I _know_ what he said, angel,” he answered impatiently, “and he's powerful, yeah, but there's a difference between what happened here and fixing the mess we're in. So he made everyone on Earth forget about last week. Do you really think he can do the same for all of Upstairs and Downstairs? The host of Heaven? The armies of Hell? His _father_?”

“Er,” Aziraphale muttered, “maybe he's doing something else? Keeping them away from us?”

“What's he going to do? Keep an eye on us every moment for the rest of his or our lives****?” Crowley persisted. “Aside from the fact that that's more than a bit creepy, both sides know exactly where we are. Sooner or later, someone's bound to get through. All it takes is one Duke or a Dominion, and then it's Hell's fury or divine wrath for all eternity. ” He swallowed. That was one particular train of thought he not only was not keen on, but would have gladly jumped off of mid-trip, staged its violent derailing and subsequently burned and buried the wreckage just to be on the safe side.

“I suppose, er... if it would make you feel better, dear,” Aziraphale conceded in a tone that was supposed to be reassuring, but managed nothing of the sort. “Maybe a short retreat to somewhere else wouldn't such a bad idea. I did see an advert in the paper not long ago about some charming-looking cottages in South Downs...”

Crowley was about to complain about the ridiculous idea of him living in a _cottage_ (not to mention that he had been planning on going into hiding a bit further than Sussex), but was interrupted by what looked like a sudden build-up of static electricity around him (or, more accurately, the flashy sort of effect that passes for static electricity in film and television), accompanied by an increasingly bright glow.

In the same manner that humans respond to mind-boggling phenomena with phrases like “Well, that's a bit odd”, the only thing that Crowley could bring himself to say in his current state of befuddlement interlaced with fear was “This can't be good”, before being engulfed in bright light accompanied by a boom that put the natural thunder still present in the background to shame.

The light dimmed down and then vanished entirely. For once demonstrating an unusual sense of timing, the rain stopped. Ears still ringing from the noise, Aziraphale uncovered his eyes and looked across the table. There was a wet outdoor seat, and a few puffs of smoke still hanging in the air. There was also a dim glow of occult energy, invisible to the (non-psychic) human eye.

“Crowley?” the angel muttered, although he had already felt the demon's presence vanish.

A conscientious waiter, blissfully oblivious to what had just happened, cheerfully made his way towards the table. Oddly enough, he did not find himself questioning the smoke, or the fact that his customer was not even the slightest bit damp.

“Will your friend be returning for desert, Mr Fell?”

“What? Oh,” Aziraphale absent-mindedly replied, his eyes still on the empty seat and a very concerned frown taking shape on his face. “No, dear... I expect not.”  


  


*Or possibly, if recent weather was any indication, fish.

**If there was ever such thing as Understatement Olympics, this one would have gone home with a complete set of gold medals.

***Purely for entertainment purposes, of course. Millennia-old habits died hard.

****At this point he was not entirely sure which would end first.


	5. Chapter 5

… _got himsel... ferent meatsuit... esn't mea... not him..._

… _on't mean it is either..._

Crowley slipped back into consciousness, ears still ringing. His head felt like someone had dropped the M25 on it, and the rest of him felt like he'd had a run-in with Beelzebub himself. Except that he was still alive, and as far as he could tell, not missing any limbs.

_... not do ...thing hasty 'fore we… for sure._

He felt light-headed and drained, and his glasses were missing; it took effort to stay still, not to mention quiet, but he didn't want to alert anyone before having a chance to take in his surroundings (as much as he could without opening his eyes, at least).

… _what if Dean's right, Bobby?... definitely looks like he fits the bill..._

It was warm. Not Hell-warm, for what little reassurance that gave, but a warmth that made him feel uneasy nonetheless. He was on a chair (not the one at the restaurant, though; this one felt much more rickety and uncomfortable), and his wrists were bound tightly behind his back with what felt like hemp rope; on his chest and digging into his arms, he could feel what was likely the same variety of rope holding him against the back rest. He tried to will the bindings undone, but they stubbornly refused to get any looser.

_Not to mention it'd be a hell of a lot of effort just to make us gank one guy._

He thought he'd heard three voices so far; he wondered if there were any more he'd missed or just hadn't heard yet. He wanted to feel around for warm bodies in the room, but what he got for his trouble was a curtain of heat from all sides.

He risked a quick flick of the tongue; no one seemed to notice (or if they did, they certainly didn't say anything about it). He caught the smell of humans (something odd about one of them, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it), and something burning. He did his best not to think about the fourteenth century.

_So he's not a civilian. But something still ain't adding up._

If there was any sort of bright side to his current predicament, it was that it sounded like he wasn't the one they were looking for. Not that he expected what was likely Witchfinders to just let a demon go (and there wasn't much he could do to conceal that he was one), but it gave him something to work with. Given enough time, he'd either think of a way out, or the angel would manage to work out where he was. All he needed to do was stall.

_That circle, for starters. Not to mention those damn marks. For all we know, we're not even dealing with a demon._

They were going to find out soon enough. There was only so long he could keep his eyes shut for, and, as much as they weren't exactly standard issue as demon eyes went, he somehow doubted that they'd believe him if he told them it was just an eye condition.

_There's one way to find out._

He didn't like the sound of that. And it may have just been nerves, but he could have sworn that he could hear the sound of water splashing around as the man said it. Which, given the circumstances, he liked considerably less.

He let out a very audible, deliberate groan and started dazedly shaking his head. Truth be told, with his head still pounding, he'd wanted to groan for a while now; and with no powers and his bindings not eager to get any looser, it wasn't exactly difficult to play the part of the freshly awakened captive.

“Ugh... someone catch the number on that lorry?” A bit cliché, he admitted, but he couldn't resist. It wasn't every day that an occult being got knocked out and kidnapped. And there was always a chance that a bit of humour might shift things in his favour.

As it turned out, it did not. Either his captors had a very strong dislike of pop culture references, or something else he said set them off, because the next thing he knew, his feet picked up trembles in the floor, followed promptly by a punch to the face and a knife pressed against his throat.

“Sam!”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he heard a raised voice so close to him that he could feel the owner breathing, “Our friends are dead because of you!”

Crowley winced, his headache not improved by the sudden addition of loud noises so close to his ears.

“Have we met?” He muttered with the voice of someone who was clearly not very happy with the current state of things, but was also doing his best to avoid ramming his throat further into the sharp knife that had already lightly grazed it. Yellow, slitted eyes opened to glare at the very tall, very angry man holding the weapon.

He had expected a look of realisation to make its way onto his aggressor's face as he worked out that he had the wrong demon, or, more likely, the look of indifference of a battle-hardened hunter of the occult who didn't much care about the particulars of the demon he was about to send back to Hell.

What he actually got was the expression of someone who on a normal day may have seemed fairly battle-hardened, but who currently looked roughly like most people would when they'd just seen a ghost.

 

\-------------

The rain clouds were long gone. The frown on Aziraphale's face, however, was still there, and in fact looked as if it was considering taking up permanent residence. The restaurant had filled up as noon came, but no one asked him to leave; nor did anyone, for that matter, appear to be paying attention to the odd man with the tartan scarf that seemed to be very interested in a patch of thin air.

He had gone from staring at the residual energy in the spot Crowley had vanished from, to circling around it, to testing its reaction to reagents such as salt and some hurriedly blessed holy water, all the while scribbling notes using a befuddled waiter's pad and pencil (“Would it be all right if I just borrowed these for a moment, if it's not too much bother, of course, there's a dear, I'll have them back to you in no time at all, now could you be a good lad and whip up a cup of hot cocoa?”). Occasionally, he would mutter things like “oh my” and “that doesn't seem right” and “well, that might explain the unusual atmospheric discharge”. Presently, he had moved on to running his fingers through the ethereal (or possibly occult, he wasn't yet sure) glow.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the touch neither filled him with the familiar warmth of Heaven, nor the unsettling feeling of Hell. Then, no closer to an answer that didn't consist of “not here”, he resorted to the tried and tested method of mad scientists and eccentric aliens everywhere and gave the trace still present on one of his fingers an experimental lick.

It was sandy, oily and salty, and had a kick that felt like hot curry but wasn't. There was also a subtle, unearthly flavour that he couldn't quite place. The angel ran a finger across his teeth, the frown joined by the look of intense concentration of someone trying to remember something that was both figuratively and somewhat literally on the tip of their tongue.

“My dear boy...” Aziraphale muttered to no one present, “What _have_ you gotten yourself into?”

It didn't occur to him for about another hour that the reason he couldn't place the taste was what he should have been focusing on in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In today's update: Aziraphale has a Doctor moment, and I play around with snake-based traits for Crowley.
> 
> One of my intentions for this fic (and subsequent ones in the same AU) is to create contrast between GO!angels/demons and SPN!angels/demons - partly because there are some canon differences, and partly because I found it interesting to have them be different beings in spite of having the same names and similar functions. So that was a bit of incentive to give Crowley a bunch of unusual traits. But mostly I just like the idea of giving him quite a few serpent attributes (on top of the canon ones).
> 
> So I started off with the obvious one - _forked tongue_ used for both smell and taste, but having a regular sense of smell as well would have made it redundant. So while thinking about nose-related senses, I remembered about _infrared sensitivity_ (some snakes have infrared receptors near their nostrils which let them feel the heat of warm-blooded creatures). And while looking into that I bumped into _vibration sensitivity_ (if part of the body of the snake is in contact with the ground, the snake can feel ground vibrations and be aware of approaching predators/prey), which was not only an additional interesting snake thing I could give Crowley, but also gave me a cool reason for him not wearing shoes.
> 
> There's also probably a few other small ones that haven't been brought up yet, but I'll mention those as and when they come up.


	6. Chapter 6

From where Dean was standing, Crowley (or at least, the guy they assumed was Crowley) was mostly out of view, so he couldn't see whatever it was that had left Sam stunned silent. What he _could_ see, however, were tell-tale signs that his brother was about to go from stunned right back to charging in the next second or so.

He dropped the beer he was holding and rushed over the circle of fire that formed the outer ring of the trap (the thing had lit itself up when Bobby had finished reading the spell, and Dean had the sneaking suspicion that he knew why the oily stuff in the vial they'd used to draw said portion of the trap had seemed so familiar; they'd never had any reason to believe it'd work on demons, though). He then grabbed hold of the younger Winchester's shoulders, pulling him back before he had a chance to lunge again.

“Easy there, Sammy,” he said in a brotherly tone, grateful that his brother wasn't putting up as much resistance as he could have done. “What's goin-”

A pair of bright, yellow eyes was staring back at them with a mixture of annoyance and worry, as well as a hint of relief brought on by the withdrawal of the knife.

“Bloody Heaven, anything I can say that _won't_ make you people try and maim or discorporate me?”

“What the Hell?” Dean said, his tone filling with both anger and consternation. Of all the demons they had ever come across (and there had been many), only one had been yellow-eyed, and the older Winchester had been looking forward to spending the rest of his life knowing that the bastard had been dealt with once and for all. Yet here he was, alive and (mostly) well, and acting like he didn't have a clue in the world who they were.

“You were supposed to be dead,” Dean said looking at him as if he was half-considering pinching himself to make sure we wasn't asleep.

“Sorry, must've missed that memo,” snarked the thing in the chair, “Did you drag me over here just to double-check, or was there some other reason?”

“Did you set this whole thing up?” the younger sibling asked, breaking free from Dean's grip, but also thankfully no longer looking like he was about to slit (a very specific) someone's throat.

“Well, since you asked,” the demon hissed, voice raised, “When I woke up this morning I _did_ think to myself “You know what's missing from my life? _**Being kidnapped by a bunch of stab-happy madmen!**_ ””

This wasn't making any sense. He'd shot Azazel himself. He'd seen the son-of-a-bitch die, and anything killed with the Colt was -as far as they knew- dead for good. And besides, even if he wasn't dead, the ritual was meant to get them _Crowley_. Hell, the guy in front of them dressed like him and talked like him, from the damn accent to being a smart-alec asshole.

Sam, on the other hand, seemed far more willing to believe that the monster who had plagued their family since before they'd been born had somehow outsmarted them again and was still alive and kicking.

“What, you think a new meatsuit and an accent are going to make us forget everything you did?”

“Okay, first of all,” their prisoner answered, exasperation joining the annoyance already in his voice, “I've had this _**“meatsuit”**_ * for the last millennium. Second - the accent, which, by the way, comes with _**living in London**_ , has been around, with slight variations, for a good few centuries too. Third, and I'm not sure how I could make this any clearer without drawing you a diagram, which for obvious reasons I'd have a bit of trouble with at the moment, _**I have no idea who you people are or what in Manchester's name it is you want!**_ ”

His little brother didn't seem very convinced, and Dean could saw his knuckles turn white as his grip on Ruby's knife tightened. “Bullshit. You expect us to believe that?”

“Oh, for cryin' out loud, you idjits,” Bobby said in his “Do I have to spell this out?” voice**. “Did it occur to you that maybe there was more than one yellow-eyed demon kicking about?”

“Finally, someone with an ounce of sense,” the demon said, looking like he was about to throw his head up towards the sky in thanks, but then thought better of it.

“Shut up,” the older hunter snapped. The captive looked like he was about to object before deciding not to piss off the one guy who was keeping him from becoming an ex-demon.

“I get it,” their adoptive father continued, looking back at the two of them, “You're angry. You expect one backstabbing bastard, and first that backfires – and, by the way, I owe you the world's biggest “I told you so” -, then, on top of that, you think you got the bastard that ruined your lives back from the dead instead. But how 'bout you use your damn heads and remember why it was you convinced me to go through with this crazy-ass idea in the first place?”

There was a moment of silence. Sam relaxed somewhat (as much as a hunter could relax when sharing a room with a demon), and Dean took advantage of the opportunity to take the knife off him. His brother backed off, over the fire and out of the trap, finally looking aware of how much he was losing it moments earlier.

Dean gave Bobby a nod and a look of agreement. As was annoyingly often the case, the older hunter was right. They weren't doing this just to get payback. They needed to stop the Apocalypse; and for that, as much as he too was beginning to doubt the “help” they had been sent, they could use every piece of info they could get. And the thing in the chair may not have been Crowley or Azazel, but a)there was still something else going on that they hadn't quite pieced together yet (why would someone go through so much trouble just to send them a random demon?), and b) it was still a demon, which meant that, if they were lucky, they could use it to find out Lucifer's next move.

“Let's start with the basics, then,” Dean began, turning to face the monster. He looked more sure of himself now that the immediate danger had passed, which didn't do much to improve the hunter's mood. “Who the hell are you?”

“I would've thought you'd know,” he answered disbelievingly, twisting left and right in the chair to inspect the elaborate sigils and runes comprising the trap on the floor, “after all the trouble you went through to get me here.”

The older Winchester didn't feel like going around in circles with this thing, and he didn't expect that asking nicely was going to work. They needed answers, and he wasn't planning to wait all night to get them.

“Tell you what,” he offered, tightening the grip on the knife and looking the thing in the eyes, “how about you skip the cryptic bullshit, and I don't make you wish you never left Hell.”

Their prisoner let out a brief chuckle.

“Mate, I don't think the all the heavy hitters Upstairs combined could manage that one. And believe me, they'd be pretty blessed motivated.”

He struck the side of the demon's face with the pommel. He could swear the asshole was winding him up.

“I'm not going to ask you again,” he barked, his tone part genuine anger, part well-rehearsed intimidation tactic, and pressed the weapon against his face. A thin, red line appeared beneath the blade.

“Sorry. I don't go on a first-name-basis with people who knife me on the first date.”

Of all the demons they didn't want to deal with***, they had to get the snarky one. He gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the smug look the bastard had on his face as he took a few steps out of the circle, towards his brother and the table they had used for the ritual. Sam, a signature guilty puppy look on his face, reached out behind it, picked up a bucket of water and handed it to him.

When he turned again, the look he saw wasn't one of indifference, or defiance, or even slight nervousness. It was fear, pure and simple – mouth open, eyes wide, pupils the width of a piece of string.

Something was going on, all right, but at least now they were getting somewhere.

  


*Even with hands tied behind his back and no powers, he somehow managed to put the word between a pair of very displeased air quotes.

**A voice both the brothers were closely familiar with.

***i.e. all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit weird writing s5 Sam. If it was just generic SPN instead of a specific point in the timeline, it's quite possible I would have assigned some of the stuff he's been doing so far to Dean instead. But s5 Sam is in a very angry place right now (see how their reunion with SPN!Crowley went, and this fic is much closer to when they lost Jo and Ellen), so I've had to keep that in mind a fair bit when writing him.
> 
> Though it does mean that I get to have Dean be the more level-headed one and show off that brain of his, which is cool and needs to happen more.


	7. Chapter 7

“It can't be...” Aziraphale muttered to himself as made his way back to the bookshop at a brisk pace, all-the-while going through the sheets of notes he'd carefully torn from the waiter's pad (he'd returned the pad itself and the pen, of course, along with the payment for the meal and a generous tip).

For the most part, his way was thankfully clear. Once in a while, he'd come dangerously close to walking straight into someone, sending both of them tumbling to the ground and undoubtedly scattering precious notes and wasting precious time as he felt obligated to help the other up and offer wave upon wave of apologies. Then, at the last moment, he'd just happen to veer out of the way, or someone would call the other person, causing them to turn just in time; or they'd realise they'd forgotten something in their car, or a sudden gust of wind would blow into their face and push them back a small, but important number of time-saving steps. And the angel would move on unhindered, eyes racing over the sheets of paper, completely unaware of his surroundings as he made his way on a route he could have travelled down with his eyes closed*.

It wasn't as if he'd never come across the concept before. There were countless mentions of it, in one form or another, throughout Earth's history. Crowley's painter friend in Florence had discussed it at length one particular evening, after they had all had a bit too much to drink and the demon had let one or two things slip; the subject had come up again during a similar incident a good while later, this time in the company of a Mr. Wells**. And the 21st Century abounded with accounts and theories, both fictional and scientific.

He turned into Wardour Street and crossed the road, oblivious to the screeching tyres of a car mere feet away from him.

There was, of course, mention of it Above as well. He'd overheard a few of the other Principalities talking about it a few centuries back (shortly before they realised what time it was, my, doesn't time fly when you're ethereal, and that they had some very important holy duties to attend to on the other side of Paradise****).

And on rare occasions, if the weather was good and you both looked the right way and happened to be one of Heaven's more sharp-eyed residents, you could see them – brief flashes of other places, never more than a short glimpse, and always somewhere different. Not other planets (that would have barely been remarkable by most angel standards*****), but what they eventually learned were other realities. Not that it came as a surprise – Heaven itself was, after all, a pocket dimension linked to their particular version of Earth, and, since it clearly had thin enough “walls” to allow souls and angels passage, it only made sense that the occasional echo from somewhere else would seep through as well******.

But those, he whispered to no one in particular as he fumbled with his right hand through his left coat pocket in search of his keys, those were all either theories or simple observations. Even travel to and from Heaven (and, by inference Hell) was only possible because, a)the connection between their plane and Earth was already present, and b)as a pocket dimension, it still, in a strange sense that would have involved four-dimensional equations and additional sensory organs to explain, belonged to the same reality.

But actually passing (or, in this particular case, dragging someone else through) from one distinct Universe to another, with nothing to bridge it, nor any anchors on the other side?

That was impossible. Or rather, he corrected himself as he pushed open the shop door, it should have been. They just didn't make fundamental laws of existence like they used to.  


* All of them.

**After the fourth time, the angel started wondering if these drunken slips of the tongue weren't deliberate***, just to see what great human minds could make of whatever facet of the Universe he decided to bring up. Of course, as an angel, he couldn't approve of giving humans knowledge of things they weren't yet ready to know. But he had to admit, the results were seldom disappointing.

*** They were. There was something to be said, Crowley had later told him, about giving a genius a glimpse of new knowledge and watching them piece together the implications, often coming up in minutes or hours with things they hadn't managed to think of in millennia.

**** The fact that Aziraphale's punishment and subsequent demotion after the Eden Incident had consisted of him joining their ranks still didn't sit well with some among the choir. Wrath and Pride were, of course, sins, and as such, no self-respecting angel with the intention of remaining one for the foreseeable future would feel anything of the sort. Slight dislikes were, however, permissible, and by this point, even Aziraphale felt it might be possible that a number of Principalities slightly disliked him a fair bit.

***** The Virtues would have yawned theatrically and returned to their celestial charges.

****** Presumably, the same could be said for Hell, but Aziraphale didn't make a habit of bringing up the subject in conversation; there were some things Crowley preferred not to to talk about, and there were some things that the angel very strongly preferred not to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um... It's possible I spend a bit too long thinking about inter-universe interactions in multiverse-based narratives (as illustrated by the fact that what I just said sounds less like something you'd find in a fanfic note and more like something you'd find on the cover of a dissertation). Yeah. It's kind of a thing for me. I guess I just like working out what the ground rules are before dealing with inter-dimensional or time-travel-based shenanigans. But I swear some of it is (at least somewhat) relevant.
> 
> Next chapter should hopefully be less technobabble (etherbabble?) and more stuff actually happening.
> 
> Note#2: For those of you who don't spend ages looking up angelic hierarchies, the Virtues are the choir that supervise celestial bodies and keep the cosmos in check.


	8. Chapter 8

It had briefly seemed as if things were looking up. Not you-might-make-it-out-of-this-without-help-looking up, but at least not-in-immediate-danger-of-discorporation-looking up. If he was lucky, maybe even I-can-stall-this-until-the-angel-gets-his-literally-blessed-arse-over-here-looking up.

If there was something he had gotten very good at over the past six millennia, it was reading people. You had to, really, when your job revolved around swaying them to perform various (marginally) nefarious deeds. But he wouldn't have needed to be very perceptive to know beyond any doubt that, had the angry, tall man that smelled slightly of something inhuman been left in front of him a few more seconds, he would have very shortly been paying Down Below a surprise visit.

The shorter one that had pulled his first aggressor back, though ( _he remembered hearing “Dean” a few times_ )? Now he was a different story. He was angry, all right, just like the other one and the guy sitting behind them in the wheelchair ( _so there were only three of them after all_ ). But he was the sort of angry that looked like he wanted to take it out on someone responsible for a while; and, even better, the sort of angry that wanted a few answers before he sent you on a long trip to a certain warm-weathered* destination. It still meant that things were about to get much more unpleasant for him, but one Witchfinder's anger, no matter how creative and even for extended (though thankfully limited by human biology) periods of time, still sounded a whole lot better than eternity in Hell**. If he wound the human up just the right amount (and he knew a thing or two about winding people up) – a bit of anger here, a bit of frustration and want for an answer there, with the occasional fragment of information just big enough to have him think that he's getting somewhere – he could keep him going for a long time; long enough, he hoped, that the ethereal being he grudgingly admitted was his only chance of getting out of there in one piece would show up***.

He had been fairly sure it was working, too. That is, until the bucket of clear liquid that filled him with the same sense of dread as the circle of fire he was trapped in started making its way towards him.

He'd been discorporated a good few times over the years. It was never pleasant, and he had had to deal with mountains of paperwork and countless explanations and arguments with the pencil-pushers of Hell. Bodies didn't just grow on trees, they'd tell him, you couldn't just go around getting yourself stabbed like that all the time. But eventually everything would go through and he'd be back to tempting people, drinking, and sleeping the days away like it had never happened.

But holy water? Turns out, there was a very good reason why even demons didn't (usually) stoop low enough to use it against one of their kind. It didn't just send you back Downstairs; it would tear through your skin, through your whole body, down to your very essence and what constituted the demonic equivalent of a soul. Then, like a flame against paper, it would burn it away. And then, there would be no more new corporations. No more wiles. No more drinking wine in bookshops in Soho. There would be only nothingness.

“I push a knife against your face and you don't even flinch,” _Dean_ said in what _had_ to be feigned ignorance, “but pull out a bit of water and _now_ you're scared?”

“Bullshit,” Crowley said, the calculated defiance in his voice moments ago now replaced by thinly-veiled terror as he pointlessly struggled against his bindings. “You know what that sstuff will do to me!”

“I don't, actually,” the bastard answered, now another couple of steps closer. He was mocking him, he had to be – there was no way they'd have something like that around without knowing what it did. “But I can't wait to find out.”

“You... you s-ssaid you wanted answerss!” he nearly pleaded, his breathing quick and uneven.

“Well then, guess I'd better start getting them soon,” the man demanded, holding up the bucket as he got even closer. “What's with the Jungle Book act?”

“W-what?”

“The hissing,” came the reply, “I mean, the shoes, I get – they fit right in with the “stuck-up asshole” look, but...”

“Dean,” the tall guy ( _“Sam”, wasn't it?_ ) decided to pitch in, “I... don't think those are shoes.”

His other two captors turned their heads to stare at his feet as if they'd only just realised they were there. It was easy to see why they were often, to the demon's relief, mistaken for shoes - they had no toes, and were brown and scaled. The scales on the upper part of his feet were fine and formed a pattern with darker brown swirls reminiscent of those found on some pythons. The ones on his soles were both lighter and larger, and looked thick enough to walk over a bed of nails****.

“What are you?” the short one's voice cut through the silence, his tone very clearly implying that any more lies would be met with a very quick, very unpleasant shower.

“Demon. I'm a demon, okay?” Crowley answered defensively, voice trembling slightly, and willing to admit just about anything to keep a (sort-of) safe distance between himself and the holy water. “Look, I don't -”

“Last we checked,” the guy called Bobby joined in, “demons didn't come in snake print.”

“I-I'm kind of a ssspecial casse,” the terrified man-shaped being let it slip before thinking better of it. “It'ss... it'ss nothing... jusst a reminder for ssomething that happened a long time ago.”

“And what “something” might that be?” the old man pressed on.

“I... I don't think...” Crowley mumbled, desperately searching for one of the well-crafted lies he could have normally come up with on the spot. He would have eagerly given them the truth about just about anything else if it meant prolonging his existence, but he had a feeling that telling the humans who presently held his life in their hands that he had been personally responsible for the Original Sin was a bad idea.

There was a flicker of movement from the direction of the shorter Witchfinder, and a small, unnerving glint of light rapidly approached him. Then there was agony. The smell of sulphur filled the air and Crowley screamed as the skin on the right side of his neck turned black and shrivelled, sanctified liquid burning through both his flesh and his occult essence.

  


* With chances of absolute zero later in the day.

** A sentiment that, he realised, he would have agreed with even before being in Hell's worst books, and was a good part of the reason why had he ended up in them.

*** At least, he _hoped_ he'd be showing up. Even disregarding the fact that he was marginally aware that he was more often the one to go looking for the angel than the other way around, he could hardly fault Aziraphale for calling it a day if it looked like he had just been snatched up by Hell.

**** In actual fact, they had only lasted two thirds of the way through the bed of nails before Crowley had had to miracle a thin layer of air solid to cover the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a while ago I mentioned in a comment that I felt bad about the stuff Crowley had gone/was going to go through. Then this chapter finally took shape.
> 
> *hugs Crowley a lot*


	9. Chapter 9

There was black smoke, and, had he not been in agonising pain, a quick tongue flick would have revealed a scent reminiscent of rotten eggs and burning plastic. He couldn't see the flesh on his neck, but he could feel it bubbling and peeling. In fact, there was little else he could focus on. The holy water burned through skin and muscle and everything else, scorching his physical and spiritual forms alike.

“EDEN!” Crowley cried out, as if hoping that the words would somehow stop the pain. His body shivered; his words came out in gasps. “I got it... becaussse of Eden...”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, taking deep breaths as he felt the pain stretch upwards towards his ear, as well as lower, below his shirt collar. For the first time, he wondered how Ligur had felt; maybe he'd been lucky and died before the pain had fully kicked in. Had he still been alive, though, Crowley was certain the Duke would have enjoyed seeing the tables turned*.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, his demonic essence, although drained by the trap, overwhelmed the droplet of blessed water. A puff of steam rose from the blackened wound. The smoke started scattering, and the pain gradually went from “excruciating” to “extremely unpleasant”.

“ _Son-of-a..._ ” he made out a whisper from Dean, his voice filled with surprise (albeit with no signs of regret) as he flicked away the rest of the water on his hand**. If he was still feigning ignorance, he was doing a blessed good job of it. Not that it mattered, anyway. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, and, although he still held onto the hope that he somehow would, Crowley didn't expect he had long to live.

“ _ **Eden?**_ " Sam muttered in disbelief.

“Adam-and-Eve-prancing-around-naked-Eden?” the shorter one echoed him.

“Try _**Serpent**_ of Eden.”, the old man spelled it out.

Confirmation came by way of silence. The demon could hear his own frantic heartbeat as the three humans, their glances filled with worry and confusion, first looked at each other, then back at him.

“ _This guy?_ ” the man holding the still-full bucket gestured towards him, a sceptical frown taking shape on his forehead. If he hadn't been both in pain and with his life under substantial threat, Crowley might have taken time to be offended.

“It was an excusse to get out Hell,” the demon muttered, his eyes wet and his voice hoarse, “I practically volunteered.”

“I thought _Lucifer_ was the Serpent,” the tall Witchfinder objected.

“Pride is kind of hisss thing***,” he answered. “Do you really think he'd let ssomeone elsse take credit for the Original Sssin?”

“You expect us to believe you've been around since Day One?” Dean snapped, getting a few steps closer.

“How would lying to you about thisss help me?” Crowley pleaded.

“It's got a point,” Bobby conceded, “Five year-old could come up with something better than “I led mankind into sin.”.”

He wanted to object being called an “it”, but bit his tongue. “Thanksss. I think.”

“So has _Original Sin_ got a name?” Dean asked him, not looking any more convinced.

  


* Of course, being Ligur, he probably would have enjoyed seeing him suffer even if the holy water incident hadn't happened.

** Though this time, thankfully, not in Crowley's direction.

*** Really, calling it that was like saying that water was a tad on the wet side.

\-------------  


In a run-down shack on a tiny desert island in the middle of the Pacific, the former King of the Crossroads sneezed.

Then, as he slowly sipped from his last remaining glass of Craig, he suddenly had the inexplicable feeling that things could be a lot worse. He ignored it and went back to cursing his existence and the Winchesters' incompetence.

\-------------  


Meanwhile, in a different reality, a Duke of Hell went about his daily infernal duties, uncertain about the reason behind his recent return from non-existence, but nonetheless pleased about it. He was never one to question things going in his favour, and, since the recent Armageddon disaster (in that it was a disaster that there hadn't been one), he hadn't had time to. There were meetings to arrange, and planning to be done, and someone had to work out what to do about the impending overpopulation of the Fifth Circle. Not him, of course. But someone – and someone he was supposed to find. He hadn't even had enough time to spare for his weekly torment of lost souls.

It was a worse time than usual to be in Hell's service. And yet today, although he couldn't explain why, as he dashed by a pit echoing with the screams of the damned, Ligur couldn't help but feel a bit pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hate blowing my own horn, but if you're reading this fic, chances are you like Supernatural and Good Omens. And if you like those two, you might be interested in a little [charity sale](http://launchycat.tumblr.com/post/58833852235/launchycat-so-i-finally-got-around-to-doing-a) I've got going on until Sunday (all profits from my shop will be donated to Random Acts). I know there isn't a huge selection (only three prints up at the moment), but I'd appreciate it if you had a look.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

There was a mostly neat row of reading material amassing on a book trolley – the majority journals or scrolls, but a few books and folders too*. Some dealt with scientific matters, while others discussed the esoteric; a number of them were written in languages which hadn't been spoken on Earth in centuries, and in the case of one particular scroll had never been spoken there in the first place. Bookmarks and bits of scribbled paper fluttered from between their pages as the trolley rushed to keep up with its concerned owner.

Next to a desk in a newly-established reading corner, a number of rushed, but elegantly-written notes in a language most citizens of Earth would have struggled to identify were spread across a cork board**. Between them, an assortment of differently-coloured pieces of string stretched out in a seemingly random pattern. Occasionally, one of the threads would move, or a new one would join them from the ether. Half an hour later, the threads became still, and the trolley came to a stop beneath what was starting to look like a conspiracy theorist's bulletin board.

Not for the first time since he'd returned to the bookshop, Aziraphale huffed in frustration as he hurriedly (but carefully) scanned through a scruffy scroll with “The Other Planes” scribbled at the top in Ancient Greek, only to put it down moments later and seemingly at random grab a worn notebook from between a brown folder and some rolled up parchment.

 _Inter-dimensional travel is theoretically possible_ , this one (the journal of a Prof. Q. Mallory) insisted, _but achieving it requires both a significant power source to fuel the transfer and an already-existent stable link with the other side._

 _A link already in place? Was that all?_ Aziraphale scoffed as he closed the notebook a bit less gently than he might have normally done. You could just as well have said that men could walk through walls, but only if someone opened the gates for them – perfectly accurate, but also perfectly useless when all you had was a locked gate and a solid wall. Why, if he had had a _link_ available, then Crowley -

Aziraphale paused mid-thought.

  
  


Making your way through a wall was much easier once someone else had already crashed through it.

  
  


*Any one of which would have made most knowledgeable book collectors weep tears of joy (and envy).

**As a language that had rarely even come across – let alone needed to explain – certain concepts, English made expressing them in a timely fashion cumbersome at the best of times and near-impossible at any of the rest.  
\-------------

 

“Bullshit,” Dean snapped, getting closer still to the thing in the circle, while behind him, his brother's jaw dropped slightly.

“I'm telling you the truth!” it pleaded, desperately tugging at its bindings. Really, it didn't make any sense for it to be lying any more (Bobby had trouble imagining anything it could be hiding that could top “I'm the damn Serpent of Eden”), but neither did what they were hearing.

“We've _met_ Crowley,” the older of the two boys raised his voice. Was it possible it had been lying through its teeth the whole time? Maybe assuming these things stuck to common sense had been their first mistake.

“I'm telling you, I've never ssseen you people before in my life!” the creature insisted, its slit pupils the thinnest of lines, its face filled with terror; lying didn't seem like something on its mind right now. “It-it'sss not ecssactly a rare name; there wasss thiss guy about a sssentury back, thought being named after a demon would be - ”

“Yeah? And how many _demons_ named Crowley are there?”

If the thing was as old as it said it was, it wouldn't have surprised Bobby if some demon rookie had decided “borrowing” the Serpent's name was a good idea. There was something else about it, however, that bothered him a lot more.

“S-ss'far ass I know, it'ss jusst me,” it stuttered, “but I didn't really ssspend much time Down Below, even before - “

“Now, correct me if I'm wrong,” the older hunter interrupted, “but to me “Crowley” doesn't exactly scream “dawn o' time”.”

“It'sss what I've been ussing for a good few ssenturiess now,” the demon explained, “before that, it wasss alwayss something ssimilar that s-ssounded like it fit in.”

Bobby couldn't help but notice that, even with the holy water adding weight to their argument, they still hadn't gotten any closer to finding out the thing's name. And, from the way Dean moved closer to the demon, it seemed so had he.

“Look, I know what you're thinking,” the creature also seemed to catch on, “and I can give you every sssingle name I've ussed sssince that day in the Garden, but I can't tell you my true name!”

Must've been one hell of a name if it was worth turning into a bubbling puddle of goo for. And one look at Dean told the older hunter that all knowing that had done was made him want to find out even more. Bobby almost felt sorry for the thing. Almost.

“You might wanna think about that,” he advised it as the boy now held the bucket about a foot away from its face.

“You-you don't underssstand!” the thing yelled pleadingly, more desperate than ever. “I CAN'T! I PHYSSSICALLY CAN'T!”

The bucket of holy water withdrew slightly.

“When we - when we... It changesss you, okay?” it continued, barely stopping for breath*. “Part of you getsss torn out, and your name – your name goess with it.”

There was a hint of sorrow or longing amidst the panic in its voice when it said it. It was something Bobby hadn't ever really seen in a demon. He doubted the boys had.

“Besssidess, I would've thought you already knew,” he went on, doing his best to look at the runes directly underneath him, “You ussed it to sssumon me here in the firsst plasse.”

  
  


*He would have actually stopped breathing some time ago if not for the fact that speaking still required him to exhale (and thus occasionally inhale).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. Yay!
> 
> Sorry it's been so long, I've been busy moving house and not been able to put a lot of time into writing. I'll try and get the next chapter up quick to make up for it.
> 
> P.S. First person to spot the semi-obscure 90s reference gets a cookie; anyone that spots it after them gets an approving nod instead.


	11. Chapter 11

The door to the apartment opened with a slight creak; Aziraphale returned the keys to his pocket and slid in quietly. He didn't really _need_ a key to get in, of course; but Crowley had been nice enough to give him one not long ago*, so it seemed only fair that he put it to good use.

It would have felt like intruding, if not for the fact that the place felt more like a television studio than someone's home. There was everything you would think to put in an apartment, and none of the things you wouldn't; the stack of unopened letters advising amazing savings stacked on an end table; the television remote control left in the place least likely to be noticed from the living room seats; the empty mug on the coffee table; the little things which served both as annoyances and clear reminders that there were living beings inhabiting the residence.

Nonetheless, the angel couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he strode unannounced into Crowley's living room and watched as the plants let out a brief photosynthesis of relief. In the end, he reassured himself, it was all for the old snake's benefit, wasn't it? How else was he meant to find something that had enough of a connection to him to bridge a Multiverse-spanning gap?

It was only then that Aziraphale saw past the clutter of concern, guilt and complicated five-dimensional equations racing through his mind long enough to notice that there was a distinct demonic presence somewhere nearby. Not just the residual energy he could feel a thin layer of throughout the apartment, or even the strong, radiating pulse he could feel whenever he entered the Bentley **; this was the sort of source of occult energy which one only encountered in the presence of a demon.

“ _Crowley?_ ” the angel cried out without thinking, and instantly regretted it.

To the inexperienced human observer (assuming that they are capable of observing auras in the first place), auras look like variously-sized shimmering shapes that are otherwise quite difficult to tell apart, other than perhaps for the purpose of differentiating between species or determining one's mood or health status. After six millennia, Aziraphale could have singled out the Crowley's occult glow in the heart of one of the Circles of Hell ****. At times, the angel could almost swear he could glimpse that spark of goodness Crowley always refused to acknowledge.

The demon in the apartment was almost as far from being Crowley as was demonically possible.

  
  


* _Someone_ needed to threaten (and water) the plants while he was away on work trips.

** Crowley had spent so much time in that car, Aziraphale half-expected it to gain self-awareness one of these days ***.

*** Assuming it hadn't already.

**** A skill both of them were very grateful to have never had the opportunity to put to the test.

  
\--------------  
  


“You're kidding,” was all Sam managed to say.

“You're telling me,” his brother said incredulously, “ that this thing (he gestured towards the trap on the floor) didn't just nab us a completely different Crowley, but that it was _supposed_ to do that all along?”

“Down to the minute and ssecond you sssummoned me at,” this other (in all likelihood, original) Crowley answered, seemingly as confused as they were.

Sam remembered what he had said to Dean back at the asylum – about being angry all the time; about simply looking for things to be angry at. Right now, he wanted to be angry. He wanted to be able to blame the thing tied to the chair in front of them for everything that had happened. He wanted to blame it for their mom, and for Jess, and for Jo, Ellen, and everyone else they'd ever lost.

“You sseriously didn't know?” their prisoner asked a moment later.

And from what they'd heard so far, he would have had every right to – if what it had told them was true, short of maybeLilith, this would have been the one demon that he and everyone else on Earth would have been most entitled to hate. But looking at it... remembering the utter indifference on Alistair or Lilith's faces when stabbed with a _demon killing blade_ , and then seeing the look of sheer horror on _his_ face when faced with a simple bucket of holy water, it was hard to believe that they were facing the demon responsible for mankind's downfall and first source of suffering.

“Did ssomeone elsse put you up to this?” His bright yellow eyes raced from one of them to another, a bit less desperate now that the holy liquid was not in immediate danger of coming into contact with him, but visibly nervous nonetheless.

They hadn't even seen any of the usual bloodlust and psychotic behaviour they'd come to expect from demons yet. Hell, for a few seconds earlier, he'd actually looked upset (and not just in the “scared” or “displeased” sense), even regretful – something they'd _never_ seen a demon do before. Even Ruby -

**No**. He was never going down that road again. This _thing_ was a demon. They didn't feel remorse, they didn't feel sympathy, and they certainly didn't play nice. It had been manipulating and deceiving humans since day one. If it seemed helpful or harmless, it was only be because it was playing with them - lying to stall for time, or lying to lure them into a false sense of security. Sam didn't much care which. He and Bobby had only agreed to do this because they were desperate for info – he wasn't about to let it distract them from that by making them pity it.

“Wass it a tall, menassing bloke? Wearss sstuff that went out of sstyle lasst ssentury, lookss like he eatsss babies for breakfassst? Probably actually hasss – though he usually ssticksss to lossst soulsss from what I hea-”

“Doesn't matter,” Sam interrupted. “We got you here because we wanted answers.”

The demon looked like it was going to interject, but the younger Winchester kept going before it had a chance to.

“You're going to tell us what Lucifer is planning.”

  
\-------------  
  


There was a thin layer of dust on the windowsill; the sheet that had presumably once inhabited the bed looked like it had called the floor home for some time now, and the whole room was permeated with a faint demonic aura. This would have suited the demon just fine, if not for the fact that the entire room was also bathed in sunlight, the bed looked like it hadn't been slept in for over a week, and, like all other rooms in the unbearably pleasant apartment, this one was currently devoid of any life (let alone occult life) other than some sickeningly lush greenery.

It wasn't just a matter of personal affronts (as much as those abounded), either. The traitorous bastard had dared disobey infernal orders – repeatedly, no less, to the point where it was almost surprising the disgusting spawn-of-a-peacedove hadn't all-out Risen to join the Other Side; as much as he wanted nothing more than to see them all burn for eternity, he supposed that even the host of Heaven must have had some standards.

And to put the icing on the lost soul, the crawling vermin had had a hand in **thwarting Armageddon**. The Final Battle. Judgement Day. The Ultimate Infernal Goal since the moment of the Fall. He'd practically volunteered for the job of dragging him back Down Below - or more accurately, he'd come up with the job, then assigned himself to it. Not only would making the worm suffer be rewarding in and of itself, it was also a welcome break from the mountains of paperwork currently plaguing infernal offices; not to mention that it doubled as a chance to make up to his superiors for recent failures. Hell was now hard at work figuring out what the next big step was; in the meantime, he was going to be the one who ensured that Crawly would meet his long-overdue eternal torment.

First, however, he needed to find the bastard. And so far, all his searches had turned up were empty lodgings and no indication as to what rock the pathetic excuse for a demon had crawled under.

That is, until a metallic jingle pierced the silence, and the presence of an (as far as he was concerned, not the least bit threatening) angelic aura announced that things were about to become, if not informative, then at least considerably more entertaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies yet again for the massive delay. As it turns out, illness does not a punctual/inspired/prolific Launchywriter make. Multiple sources of illness, even less so. Regularly scheduled updates will hopefully resume now.
> 
> Also, I might just be a bit too fond of coming up with demon insults/terms/expressions.


	12. Chapter 12

Aziraphale stumbled a few steps backwards, nearly falling over a modern-looking, glass-surface coffee table before steadying himself on the sofa behind it. The door to the bedroom creaked open slowly, deliberately. The angel glanced towards the hallway leading to the exit, only to hear the clicking of a lock sliding itself in place and making the situation even bleaker that it already was.

In the doorway stood a tall, lean figure; he had swept back brown and grey hair, and brown-orange eyes which may well have had a hint of actual hellfire in them. Spending time around Crowley meant that the angel had grown used to being the short one in the room; the demon he faced now, however, would have towered over both of them not just physically, but also with regards to raw occult (or ethereal) power.

“Well, well...” the demon slid closer, his face forming a smile which told of nothing amusing in the angel's future.

“Er. Um. Good afternoon,” the Principality mumbled, doing his best to keep a calm composure and pleasant expression and managing it about as well as your average office clerk after finding out that management wanted to have a chat with them in their offices.

“If it isn't Crawly's little _“nemesis”..._ ” Two pairs of long fingers with nails slightly reminiscent of talons formed quotes in the air as the humanoid figure emphasised the final word and continued to advance. Aziraphale took a few more clumsy steps backwards; his hands brushed against foliage and plastic containers as he bumped into the windowsill.

The angel muttered a few words which appeared to become lodged in his throat. His eyes raced around nervously as his hands clutched to whatever they could grab behind him.

“I... Er. Don't believe I've had the pleasure,” he managed, whatever semblance of a smile he had managed to put together quickly fading.

The demon let out a chuckle that sent shivers down the celestial being's spine. The angel slid a few inches further along the windowsill in a futile attempt to maintain some distance between himself and the other person in the room.

“Oh, the _pleasure_ is going to be all mine,” he answered in a tone which would have made the dead shudder, as, with a few long, effortless strides, he blocked off any remaining escape route.

Aziraphale, smile now fully faded, quivered his lips slightly as more words seemingly refused to leave his throat.

“To think that the slithering vermin actually had us _believing_ that tale for a while,” the obviously high-ranking infernal agent hissed indignantly as he walked right up to the bespectacled man-shaped being and stared him down. “ _And then_... just when everyone thought he couldn't rise any higher, the traitorous sun-loving worm thought that not only would it be an excellent idea to stand against our Lord and Master, but that, to spite us all further, he would do so _**hand-in-hand with an angel.**_ ”

The Principality's heart stopped as the demon grabbed hold of his shirt and sweater with one bony hand and raised him to eye level.

“I... I'm certain we could come to some sort of understanding,” Aziraphale spoke in gasps, not sounding particularly sure of himself.

“Understand _this_ ,” the demon snarled, eyes glowing a dim red; his other hand gripped the angel's face, razor-sharp fingernails digging into his neck and cheek effortlessly, “Thanks to you and that disgrace to all things infernal, I have had a very, _very_ bad week. I faced the wrath of the Dark Council; I was present in Hell when our Lord Satan learned that Armageddon had been thwarted by one of his own lowly minions, the minion's boyfriend and _**his own son**_ _;_ I had to fill out _**mountains**_ of paperwork. 

“So now, you're going to serve as my entertainment. I'm going to tear you apart, inch by inch, piece by piece; I'm going to take you to the brink of discorporation, then put you back together again and start over; I'm going to do that, over and over, until you wish you were never spawned, and then, _if_   I get bored of your screaming, I'm going to ask you where Crawly is. And if you tell me, I _might_ consider ending your miserable excuse for a life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of sulfur pit this morning...
> 
> x2 Update Combo! Hope this makes up for the earlier update hiatus.


	13. Chapter 13

Crowley let out a short huff in spite of himself. He supposed that eventually, someone was bound to assume that being the Serpent of Eden meant that he knew what went on in Hell. He just wished that the people in question didn't also happen to be holding his life in their hands. Having them not be angry Witchfinders with no qualms about ending his life would have also been a plus.

“If I had to guesss, planning a long chat with his kid.” _And picking out a spike to put my still-screaming head on._

“His _kid_?” The three Witchfinders asked in unison.

“You know, the Antichrist - Adverssary, Destroyer of Kingss, Angel of the Bottomlesss Pit and so on...” he explained, in the tone of one who was trying for dear life not to sound sarcastic. These guys really didn't have a clue, did they? He briefly wondered if that made things better or worse as far as he was concerned. _Not like things could get much worse._ “Caused all that commotion last w – wait, you people won't remember any of that...”

“Remember what?” The tall one pressed him; Crowley couldn't say he was particularly chuffed about his renewed involvement in the conversation (in as much as he was capable of being chuffed about anything at the moment). He instinctively scanned the room for the knife that had been pressed against his throat not long ago, and was glad to see it resting on a desk.

“Look,” he said in a tone he usually reserved for giving Hell news of things gone well, “I know thiss iss going to sound crazy; but not long ago, well... the Apocalypse happened.”

“You don't say,” the old man snapped, words dripping with sarcasm.

“What, did you think we were playing Twenty Questions for the hell of it?” Dean barked, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Bobby, Dean, “ the younger one interrupted, a heavily fed-up look on his face, “can I have a word with you?”

  
\-------------  
  


As the door slammed shut behind them, Crowley found that being alone did not make him feel any more comfortable. The bucket of holy water lay a few feet in front of him, behind a wall of holy flames. His sharp hearing could only make out murmurs from outside, but it didn't take a genius to work out that whatever was being discussed did not involve a bright (or, for that matter, long) future for him. They may have been clueless about the situation at hand, but the three humans were obviously used to dealing with the occult, and that only meant one thing for him.

This was it. He'd lived through the agony of the Fall; he'd moved on after Eden; he'd seen civilisations rise and fall; he'd seen humanity at its best and worst; he'd survived the Apocalypse and stood hand-in-hand with the angel against Lucifer himself and lived to tell the tale; and now, he was going to die in an abandoned shack in Manchester-knows-where without having even the slightest clue how he'd gotten into this mess in the first place.

He didn't want to die. No one did, really, but at least humans had an afterlife to look forward to – or not look forward to, depending on what they'd done with their lives. As an immortal being used to bouncing right back (sometimes with slight paperwork-related delays) from discorporation, on the other hand, it was hard to suddenly be faced with the prospect of permanent, irreversible, afterlifeless oblivion and not be struck by panic. Even eternal torment, he reasoned, had the upside that eternity was a very long time, which meant that there was always the slim chance that things could somehow take a turn for the better. It was hard to see upsides to nothingness.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, half-expecting a beam of holy light to pierce the roof and smite him down as he swallowed his pride, joined his bound hands together and did something he never thought he'd do.

He prayed.

“Azsss-” he stopped and breathed in again. If these were going to be his last words (or close), the least he could do was go down with some semblance of dignity.

“Aziraphale?” he began again, concentration furrowing his brow as he focused on every syllable*, “I don't know if you can even hear this – Manchester's ssake, I hope you can. I haven't got a clue where I am; there are people here - I... I don't know how they managed it; maybe Hastur, or Armaross, or Beelzebub himself, or, blesss it, anyone in Hell, really, told them to, or tricked them into it, but... angel, they've got me _bound_ ;they have _my name,_ written in _my own blood_ under my feet. And they've got holy water.

“I haven't got long; If you can't get to wherever here is or if you get here and I'm- angel, get out of London as fast as you can; take the Bentley and keep driving.

“In the meantime, though? _Hurry_.”

  
  


*And left out words with too many “s”-es


	14. Chapter 14

Tiny speckles of dust that had once called the windowsill home now filled the air, and the Duke held back a sneeze as he debated what to do with his new plaything first. The angel cringed and grabbed onto his arm, continuing to mutter something the demon couldn't quite make out as he dug his fingernails deeper into his cheek; the little haloed whelp might as well have been human for all the fight he had in him.

_ “Blessed are you, Lord, all-powerful God, who in Christ, the living water of salvation, blessed and transformed us....“ _

Was he _praying?_

“Do you honestly think that's going to help you?” Hastur said, letting loose first a slight chuckle as he grabbed the celestial being's wrist and twisted until he started hearing cracks, and then a loud sneeze as the dust rushed up his nostrils.

He felt a sudden surge of pain and reeled back with a shout (more out of surprise than pain), as his new toy took advantage of his momentary distraction and thrust his grace outwards and scrambled out of his grip.

_That pathetic little bastard! I'm going to rip his feathers out one by one._

The celestial bottomfeeder had barely even reached the door on the other side of the room before the Duke caught up with him, grabbing hold of his already-injured wrist, twisting it behind his back and ramming him into a wall hard enough to hear the gratifying sound of ribs cracking. There was a hint of green by the holy budgie's other hand, but Hastur ignored it; he didn't find himself particularly concerned by the prospect of being attacked with one of Crawly's loathsome houseplants.

“Oh no,” he grinned menacingly, digging his fingers in by one of the celestial's shoulderblades and leaving bright red streaks on his victim's now-torn gaudy blue vest as he tore through flesh and ethereal essence alike, pleased to finally hear a cry of pain interrupt his victim's pious mutters. “You're not going anywhere.”

  
  
\-------------

“...It's toying with us!” Sam said for what had to be the third time, all the while doing his best to keep his voice down, “We _know_ Jesse isn't Lucifer's kid; and I'm pretty sure every hunter in the country's noticed the Apocalypse by now.“ He took a deep breath. “Did you think that maybe, just _maybe_ , someone gave us that ritual just to mess with us? Hell, that thing we've got in the room might have set this whole thing up in the first place.”

“Yeah, he looked real comfy back there,” Bobby replied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“If anything _it_ has been saying is true - it's been here _literally_ since Adam and Eve,” he insisted, “do you honestly think it's gonna have any trouble leading us on?”

“Alright, alright,” Dean raised his voice, “I'm as eager to gank this thing as you are, and I sure as hell don't trust it. But it's about the only ace we've got up our sleeve right now.”

“Dean-”

“Look, I'm gonna give Cas a call,” his brother cut him off before he could argue any further, “see what he knows about Salazar over there. Then the four of us can grab ourselves some beer and have a nice, long chat with it. When we're done, you can finish the bastard off yourself.”

He opened his mouth to object again, but stopped himself. He _wanted_ to see the thing they had (allegedly) trapped in the abandoned shack behind him dead. But at the same time, it was hard to ignore the fact that, in that shack, they now had what was likely one of Lucifer's lieutenants, and it was entirely possible that the fate of the world now hinged on them forcing information out of it.

He saw Bobby nod in agreement. Dean and Bobby weren't stupid; they'd all been through enough to know better than to consider trusting a demon. And with Cas around, well... not only was he likely to know loads more about the thing than they did, but the thought of having an angel there for backup made the whole thing feel a lot less like sitting in a trap empty-handed and waiting for it to spring.

“Okay,” he told his brother, and then watched as Dean turned around and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I'm gonna make a couple of calls as well,” Bobby pitched in too, pulling his own phone out and sliding his wheelchair further down the deserted path. “I somehow doubt there's a lot anyone'll tell us about the Serpent that we don't already know from Sunday school – might as well be asking about the damned Tooth Fairy – but I'll see what I can dig up.”

Sam nodded, crossing his arms with a worried frown as he watched the other hunters gesturing and talking into their phones a few yards away. Moments later, he made his way towards the Impala and opened up his laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid!Dean may have had a peek at Sammy's HP novels when his brother was asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Aziraphale gritted his teeth as the demon's vice-like grip tightened around his shoulder-blade and his now-emerging wing, any spark of angelic energy that might have been used to fight back snuffed out by his assailant's more potent demonic aura; it was all he could do not to let out another cry as he felt his wing being twisted the same way that his wrist had been mere moments ago.

Had he been armed with a decent weapon (not for the first time, he wished he still had his flaming sword), he might have had half a fighting chance. As things stood, though, he could only grip the object in his hand tighter as he held back the pain and whispered a few more rushed words of prayer.

It is common knowledge that angels pray; common are depictions of angels with hands joined in a pious pose; also frequent are stories of Seraphs, four wings covering their bodies and eyes while the third set keeps them afloat by God's side, devoting their entire lives to praising His name*. What is less well-known is that angelic prayer is approximately as effective as human prayer**.

Specific human prayers, however, in the hands of the right human-shaped being, can be very effective indeed.

The Principality stretched out his wings, whispering a hurried “Amen” as he thrust himself forward, twisting himself just enough to face the demon, and them pulled the trigger. His assailant yelled out and recoiled, this time out of genuine pain, as a fine, holy mist flew forward from a near-new Sainsbury's plant mister, burning into his skin.

Fully aware that hurriedly-blessed water could only do so much, Aziraphale slammed the study door open, rushed to the phone and dialled.

 

* This is, in fact, only true for a small, very dedicated few; as high-ranking members of the celestial host, subordinate only to the Archangels, most Seraphs are very busy sorts with important angelic duties that need attending to, and prefer to do their praising on the move.

** When directed towards God, of course; individual angels have their own personal channels, often with varying levels of response depending on whether they have feelings of slight dislike towards the caller.  
\--------------

 

_I don't understand. Why do you want me to say my name?_

_BEEP_

“Damn it Cas, pick up the phone!” Dean barked into his cell phone. “Listen. We've got a demon here saying it's the Serpent of Eden. It's not going anywhere in a hurry, but we could really use your input on this one. Call me as soon as you get this.”

He slammed his flip phone shut and stormed back.

“Well screw you too, Rufus!” he heard Bobby yell into his own phone as he walked past, “If I wanted to hear I'm crazy, I would've called a therapist. Now can you dig anything up or not?”

_Business as usual there._

He made his way back to the shack door.

“ _...got me bound; they have my name, written in my own blood under my feet... ”_

Had Sammy gone back in already? He turned and scanned the deserted path, only to spot his brother facing away from him, eyes on the laptop resting on the Impala's hood.

"... _haven't got long... can't get to wherever here is or if you...”_

_What the hell was going on?_ He returned to the door and quietly cracked it open.

The room looked just like they'd left it - empty, save for the one occupant in the middle of the seemingly unchanged summoning circle, still strapped to the chair with his right side towards him, a blackened strip of burnt, oily-looking skin the side of his neck and the edge of his jaw. His head was lowered, his eyes closed with a frown of concentration on his face, and his hands were held together behind his back in a gesture that nearly refused to register in the hunter's mind.

_What. the. hell._

“...get out of London as fast as you can...” His voice sounded steadier, although it was quite obviously taking effort to do so.

“...take the Bentley and keep driving...”

Was that _concern?_

“In the meantime, though? _Hurry_.”

He pushed the door open, this time making no effort to keep quiet. The demon jumped in his seat and snapped his head towards him, his look a strange mix of fearful, resigned and embarrassed.

“Talking to someone?”

“My guardian angel,” he said in a deadpan. Dean couldn't help but chuckle.

“You know,” the Winchester told him, “If you weren't a yellow-eyed bastard on Lucifer's payroll, I might actually half-like your style.”

“Says the guy who kidnapped and very near killed me before even knowing my name,” the demon answered matter-of-factly, no real fight in him. He sounded less tense than he had a few minutes ago, but Dean quickly realised that it wasn't because of any sort of comfort. It was the sort of calm that he knew a bit too well came hand-in-hand with giving up.

“Besides, I – nevermind...”

“What?” the hunter asked impatiently, although no longer with the implied threat of a sudden and painful shower.

“Nothing you'll believe.”

Dean let out a short huff. After all him, Sam and Bobby had been through these last few years, there wasn't a whole lot he'd find hard to believe.

“Try me.”

There was a sigh that practically spelled out “here goes nothing” as the demon's yellow eyes turned to look straight into his.

“I'm not on _his_ payroll,” came the answer. “Not that we _have_ a payroll, but, you know. We're... not on great terms.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that me and a friend of mine thought it'd be a good idea to mess up his plans for the Apocalypse,” Crowley said without stopping for breath, “and that if anyone Upstairs or Downstairs got their hands, claws or other appendages on us, they'd make what you three did to me look like a day at the beach; and without even the questionable luxury of dying, at that.”

Okay. That, he hadn't expected. Then again, he hadn't expected to walk in on what had sure as Hell looked like a demon praying, either. First time for everything.

“Let's hear it,” the captive interrupted his train of thought, in a tone that implied that he knew full well that there was no way in Hell or anywhere else that the hunter would believe what he had just heard.

There were a lot of thoughts running though his head. There was doubt, naturally – he hadn't made it this far by taking stuff demons said without a few spoonfuls of salt; there was also confusion; and then there were questions. There were whats, and there were whos; there were hows. But for some reason, the first one at the front of his mind was something else.

“Why?”

The demon raised his eyebrows, obviously not expecting his choice of reaction.

“Honestly?” he answered a moment later, taking in the room. “Both of us, in the field since Day One – the place grows on you after a while...”

“Besides,” he carried on rambling, “Eternal Heaven would be a bore; and eternal Hell, well - you've got stories up here, but let me tell you - “

“ **Alright** , ” the hunter barked just a bit too loudly; the demon's brow raised briefly as their eyes met. “I get it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence as the human and demon stared at each other, surprise in the latter's eyes, annoyance in the former's.

What the he- what was taking Sam and Bobby so long? They should have been back by now. Dean made his way back to the door.

“Wait,” Crowley called after him, apparently not eager to go back to talking to himself (or maybe not eager to go back to talking to Sam and Bobby; Dean wasn't sure which). He turned to face the demon with a frown.

“Dean, wassn't it?” the latter continued, obviously scrambling for ideas, “I've already ssaid I'll tell you anything you want to know...”

“Oh, don't worry,” the hunter snarked, “we'll get back to that before you know it.”

“I've alsso been around a while,” the demon added, a grim look on his face. “No matter what I tell you, I know how that's going to end.”

“Well, if you just _can't stand_ the wait...” Dean trailed off, eyes wandering towards the holy water.

“No, look...” the other mumbled, obviously trying to grasp at straws. “Maybe there's ssomething elsse you need help with, maybe...”

The demon paused, and Dean very nearly spotted the exact instant when near-death desperation was replaced by the sort of hope only brought on by a solid, workable plan.

“Maybe,” Crowley said, suddenly sounding more like the arrogant bastard that had woken up in that chair not long ago, “we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty much a textbook example of characters having a mind of their own (with a bit of reader influence, admittedly). The bit about Crowley praying was only originally meant to serve the purpose of showing how desperate things were getting (with a side order of keeping the "sneeze when talked about behind your back" gag going a while later with Hastur), but then someone suggested that the boys overhear him, and it just wouldn't get out of my head.
> 
> I thought about having Sam be the one to hear him, but having him just loiter around like a lost puppy while Dean and Bobby looked into things didn't make any sense, so he ended up wandering off to do his own research instead. Meanwhile, I already knew Dean wasn't going to be on the phone long (whereas Bobby had a bunch of folks to talk to), so that made him the prime candidate for heading back to the shack and eavesdropping on Crowley. After which, stuff just got really out of hand, I turned my back for one second, and next thing I knew it, Dean and Crowley were inexplicably bonding.
> 
> Sometimes, I plan the plot. Sometimes, plot just happens and I'm left at the end putting the pieces together.


	16. Chapter 16

_Rrrrrrrring..._

_Rrrrrrrring..._

_Rrrrrrrri- click!_

The angel very nearly cursed several times as he hung up and started dialling another, local number. With the Youngs (and, more importantly, the youngest member of the family) unavailable, the Principality could only hope that his rituals were as quick as his prayers.

As the screams and blessings outside the office door began to subside, the person on the other end of the line picked up the phone and greeted him with a cheerful voice.

With a cringe, Aziraphale winched his wings back in and followed the phone signal.

 

\------------- 

If there was something he could do well after six thousand years, it was read people. Sometimes (particularly when existence-threatening distractions were added to the mix), it just took a while to figure out what to do with the reading material.

“The older one,” Crowley began, with the voice of someone who knew full well just how thin a layer of ice he was treading on*. “Dad? Uncle?”

He'd had better moments. Fortunately, the present situation didn't need him to seem charming so much as harmless, and recently being scared out of your wits had a way of managing that.

“What about him?” the Witchfinder snapped defensively.

Angry was bad. Defensive, on the other hand? Defensive meant that Dean actually gave a blessing about the man – something his one shot at getting out of here hinged on a great deal.

“You're close, aren't you?” he speculated further, doing his best to avoid making it sound like a threat. “He sounds like he knows his stuff – probably taught the two of you a thing or tw-”

“This going somewhere?” Dean interrupted.

“Travelling the country, ” Crowley carried on, choosing his words and tone carefully, “tracking down occult forces – I'm guessing you've got to stay in pretty good shape.”He could see the man getting ready to object again, so, taking in a deep breath, he cut to the point.

“Ending up in a wheelchair after a lifetime of that? That must've hit him hard.”

There was a moment of brief, but thick silence in the air as the look on Dean's face made it clear as day just how spot-on his assumptions were. He did his best to ignore a knot in his own stomach as he drove the point further home.

“Losing both your legs? That's like...” he paused and took a breath - for emphasis, he repeated to himself, ignoring trembling in his voice, or the tingling right behind his shoulder-blades, “...like a bird without its wings.”

If Dean had noticed the demon's reaction, several layers of anger, guilt, and helplessness rapidly taking up residence on the man's face made it hard to tell.

“Get to the point,” the Witchfinder barked impatiently.

“Right,” he nodded, his voice not-quite-steady and only sounding half as smooth as he would have liked, “Got questions on Downstairs? I'm already on the run, and it can hardly get any worse than eternal torment if they do catch up with me. So no threats, no, um... “persuasion” - I'll tell you anything you want to know. But since that's not gonna stop you from, er... dealing with me when you're done...

Once you've got your answers, if I walk out of here? So does Bobby.”

  


*He may have had a plan, but (like many plans), it was the sort of plan that relied heavily on not pissing off the person currently holding his fate in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sounds like you're speaking from experience there, Crowley.
> 
> ([Optional reading material](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/1824335) in case you just can't wait until I elaborate on that subject in-DYW!verse)


	17. Chapter 17

Hastur growled as he held back the pain searing through the skin of his face and hand. His vision had all but gone from one eye, and what little he could see through the other was shrouded in a thick haze.

_Bastard! That complete and utter, bad-for-nothing bastard!_

He scrambled towards the door, feeling his way towards the handle and towards the angelic aura beyond it. He didn't need to see the bastard to be able to feel him. Or break every bone in his body. The things he would do to him would make the fate he had planned for Crawly seem like a quiet chat in Limbo. He couldn't see the worm's feathers roasting in the deepest pits of Hell soon enough.

He slammed the door open just in time to feel the conniving whelp's glow fading away along the floor, then into the distance.

Without thinking twice, he followed suit.

  
  
\--------------

It was a nice day at the small London café/restaurant. The sun was shining, the customers were rolling in, the tips were good, and management was friendly and caring as usual - it wasn't the most glamorous job in the world, but for now, Kevin (waiter and amateur journalist)* was happy.

He was just about to start cleaning dishes in the back room when the phone at the reservation desk started ringing. He wasn't on phone duty that day, but Vanessa (assistant manager and aspiring interior designer) had gone on a supply run, and everyone else seemed to have their hands full with the myriad of customers still filling the seats.

Putting on his best smile, he made his way to the desk and picked up the phone.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a nearly sing-song voice, quickly following it up with the name of the establishment. “How can I help you?”

There was no response on the other end of the line, save for a few noises in the background that sounded as if they belonged to a tiger? Or maybe a lion...

 _Someone likes nature documentaries_ , he told himself cheerfully before trying to get a reply from the other end again.

“Hello?” he called out into the receiver, “I'm having some trouble hearing you.”

Moments later, there was rustle behind him, and Kevin turned his head to see Mr. Fell (restaurant regular and rumoured to be the locale's good luck charm**) rushing towards the exit.

 _Huh, weird_. It was the first time he had seen mister Fell attend the restaurant twice in one day. _Maybe he forgot something this morning_ , he told himself, _he did look like he was in a pretty big hurry when he left._

He listened into the receiver one last time before turning to hang up. Whoever was calling would no doubt try again later.

The phone flew out of his hand as another well-dressed gentleman rushed past, this time too quickly for Kevin to get a close look at him. No doubt late for a meeting or somesuch.Outside, he heard the unmistakeable screech of tyres from mister Crowley's car trailing off into the distance.

“Bussiness folks, eh?” he merrily told a fellow waiter as he placed the phone in its hook and headed towards the back room again. “Always in a hurry...”

  
  


*Not to be confused with Kevin (full-time student and future prophet)

**Ever since Mr. Fell and his partner had started frequenting the establishment, Vanessa had once told him, business had picked up threefold; it was just senior staff's little running joke, really, but the two were always so lovely (not to mention, left generous tips) that Kevin had no qualms playing along with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was only one name I could think of for someone _that_ worryingly cheerful. But not to fret - the desk is bloodless and no excessive hugging is likely to occur.


	18. Chapter 18

The Witchfinder's mouth opened as if to say something, then closed again; a nervous swallowing motion made its way down the man's throat, and Crowley did his best not to look too pleased about it*.

_This is actually working._

Dean's mouth opened again, this time shortly followed by actual syllables.

“Let me guess,” he said doubtfully, but behind the layers of suspicion and caution Crowley could tell that he was definitely giving the offer some consideration, “all it's going to cost me is my soul?”

“What?” the demon said in unfeigned surprise. “Even if I _wasn't_ on the run from Hell, do you really think I'd pick _now_ of all times to score some points with Downstairs? Faustian deals weren't even my division in the first place!”

The man seemed to be thinking this through, but Crowley decided that some extra reassurance wouldn't hurt.

“Look,” he said in a pacifying tone, though part of him couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't dug himself into this hole over the millennia. Well, him and all the other demons that had ever visited Earth, anyway. “No tricks, no lies, no selling your soul. I don't even care what bone you've got to pick with Hell - though if I had to guess, the Apocalypse had something to do with it - Heaven, you'd be doing me a favour keeping them busy for a while.

“All I want is to get out of here in one piece; get a chance to enjoy the place I risked my neck for, you know? You scratch my back, I fix your friend's. You have my word.”

To this, Dean let out a small, not entirely heartfelt chuckle.

“The Serpent of Eden's word, huh?” he snarked, “ _That's_ got to be worth a lot.”

“His name is Gadriel,” Sam's voice came from the door; a scream from the middle of the summoning circle followed immediately after.

There was the pain of something harmful burning through you, making nerves and essence recoil as it opened up fresh wounds. And then there was the pain of deep, old wounds burning up inside you, as if they were being carved into you anew. He could feel the echo of bones cracking and slivers of near-unbearable heat running down his back, under his skin and all the way across his wings, and he arched his back in pain as the intangible, grace-shaped hole inside of him pulled at him towards his True Name.

It wasn't as bad as Falling**, but it brought back a Heaven of a lot of memories.

  
  


*The lump in his own throat certainly helped.

**Crowley could think of few things, short of the fourteenth century and what Hell presently had planned for him, that were.

\-------------  
  
  


Hastur dashed towards the rapidly-moving aura, stumbling over an outdoor table and blessing as he nearly tripped over one of this world's pathetic excuses for hounds. He noticed the celestial glow fade somewhat as the one whose life the Duke was looking forward to making a literal living Hell dove into what, from the thick layer of demonic energy pulsing through its every part, he recognised as Crawly's preferred mode of transportation.

He took a moment to savour the thought of smashing the vehicle into little pieces (and then a few more to imagine that Crawly himself was in it while he did so), before giving what would undoubtedly be a very short chase. He lunged with unnatural speed as traffic conveniently cleared up, and, in a few moments, was right behind the vehicle, half a gesture away from reaching out and grabbing it.

An instant later, he was grasping at nothing as the car and any sign of it or its inhabitant vanished with a flash of light and a loud bang, leaving behind only a dim glow of ethereal energy and two sets of flaming tyre prints.

Duke Hastur barked out the strongest blessings he could utter without melting himself into an unholy puddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try not to stick too many references in at a time (there is such thing as too much of a good thing), but, as it so happens, this fiction has one deliberate (vehicle-related) reference I couldn't resist, and one unintentional bit of phrasing which left this mental image stuck in my head:  
>   
> You're welcome.
> 
> (For those of you wondering, Gadriel/Gadreel is mentioned in the Book of Enoch as the one responsible for the Original Sin, so it felt like a good choice for Crowley's True Name. It also -completely coincidentally, but amusingly nonetheless- means that both Azirapha _el_ and Crowley's actual names are incredibly close to a certain pair of Archangel names).


	19. Chapter 19

“Sam? What the hell?” Dean yelled as the scream coming from the centre of the room (shorter than the one the holy water had caused; though what it had lacked in length, it had made up for in intensity) subsided.

Sam, for his part, looked as taken aback as he was. Neither of them liked demons (if he had to guess, right now Sammy liked them a hell of a lot less than he did, and _that_ was saying something), but he knew his little brother well enough to know that he wouldn't just torture someone (even if that someone _was_ a demon) just for the hell of it.

“Dean, I...”, the younger Winchester muttered, in a tone that made his surprise (and a hint of guilt) clear as day to his older brother.

“I'd consider it a personal favour if you don't do that again,” Crowley told him, voice trembling, but without the panic that had flooded his tone earlier; his brother, although obviously not unfazed by what he'd just unwittingly caused, didn't seem too keen on admitting that to (or taking advice from) a demon.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked before one of them said something stupid.

“Turns out,” Sam told him, pulling it together and switching to fact mode, “there's one source that doesn't list Lucifer as the one who gave Eve the Apple. The Book-”

“-of Enoch,” the demon cut him off, ignoring a glare from the younger Winchester and focusing on the eldest instead. “That friend I mentioned? Get him drunk enough, and he just doesn't stop talking...”

“Where's Bobby?” Dean changed the subject, turning to look at his brother.

“Still outside,” Sam answered, one of his patented “not pleased” expressions now plastered across his face. “Why? Are you going to tell him that you were planning on making a deal with a demon?”

Dean couldn't help but be caught aback by the bluntness of the question.

“I wasn't _planning_ on doing anything,” he answered his brother angrily. Considering? Maybe; but not planning. “Not without talking to you and him.”

“You were thinking about it, though,” his brother huffed, “after all we've been through, you were honestly thinking about doing _this_ again?”

“It's not exactly what you'd call a standard deal-,” Crowley pitched in.

“Shut up,” the brothers cut him off in unison.

“Listen,” the older Winchester said, too distracted to care about the demon listening in, “I'm not saying we should definitely go for this – but is it bad to maybe stop and think about it for a moment?”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Sam said in an exasperated tone. “You'd risk everything, just because _he_ told you to?”

“I'd be risking it for Bobby!” he barked back, and his words seemed to strike a nerve with his brother. His expression softened, and for a few moments they simply looked at each other. They'd both been there to see their foster father just about ready to give up not many weeks ago. They'd seen him risk his life for a chance to walk again; they'd heard him talk about being useless, and about how he should have just killed himself after leaving the hospital. And then, to top that up, they'd lost Jo and Ellen. It was a miracle that the man was still going at all.

The emotion-filled silence didn't seem to escape the demon.

“Look,” Crowley said in a reassuring voice, and, for one brief instant before the unease of his current situation kicked back in, Dean could actually buy that this was the guy who had tempted Eve*. “Sam, wasn't it?”

His brother opened up his mouth, and the older Winchester half-considered telling the demon to shut up again, but the latter carried on talking before either of them had a chance to say anything.

“I've already told Dean,” he said in a nervous, yet pacifying voice. “I don't care why you're pissed off at Hell, and I'm not planning to get in your way. No strings attached - you get your answers, Bobby gets back on his feet, I get to live another day. Is that really that bad a deal?”

Sam swallowed his words, and with one more look Dean realised that they were on the same page. They knew full well it was a bad idea – hell, if the guy screwed them over like he was no doubt going to try, it'd send what little chance they had of stopping the End of Days straight out the window.

But he'd be damned again if it wasn't tempting.

  
  


*The fact that this should have concerned him more than it did didn't occur to him until much later.  
\-------------

 

Duke Hastur stood in the middle of the street blessing furiously for a good minute, paying no heed to cars or passers-by (which, in turn, seemed to be paying no heed to him apart from not crashing into him). He then proceeded to have a closer look at the trail left behind by Crawly's car and the remains of the portal it had gone through (his sight in his working eye was gradually improving), and, finding nothing of immediate use, blessed some more.

He wanted – no, he _needed_ something to take his frustration out on. He would have loved nothing more than to slaughter the entire street – oh, how excellent that would have felt. But sadly, with Armageddon no longer in motion (he blessed Crawly's name), the Dark Council had decreed that the old rules of conduct for operating in the field were once again in effect*.

Although... perhaps just one wouldn't hurt? One measly death, performed quietly where no one could see, could hardly do any harm... Why, he knew just the person, too, he told himself, turning back to face the small establishment he'd walked out of. The waiter's gleaming aura and sunny disposition had practically been a personal affront from the moment he had emerged from the end of the telephone line. Seeing him screaming and covered in blood may just have been enough to salvage an otherwise insufferable day.

He began striding purposefully towards the entrance, only to have his path cut off moments later.

There was a young, blonde boy standing in the doorway, his calm stare aimed directly at the demon.

In a fit of reverence second only to that shown to Lord Satan Himself, the Duke kneeled, not out of respect**, but in acknowledgement of the raw power held by the one before him.

“My Prince,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

“You've been kicking up enough trouble here for one day,” the Antichrist told him matter-of-factly. “You should go.”

“Yes, my Prince, of course...” he said agreeably, picking himself up and backing away with every word. Having reached what felt like a relatively safe distance away***, he blessed once more, this time under his breath. Even paperwork had to be better than this.

With a puff of sulphurous smoke, the Duke returned to Hell.

  
  


*Senseless carnage had been crossed off the list of permissible activities, on account of a)innocent deaths only serving to reinforce Heaven through the addition of extra souls, and b)obvious supernatural massacres encouraging faith, prayer, divine intervention and, more importantly, the production and use of holy water. Or so a certain field agent had convinced Hell's bureaucrats some time ago.

**Had they been on equal footing – or, ideally, footing in the demon's favour – , Hastur would have had almost as much of a bone to pick with him as he did with Crowley. As it stood, avoiding him like holy water and/or grovelling enough that he wasn't instantly wished out of existence would have to do.

***Emphasis on "felt".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, things are slowly, but surely, approaching wrap-up. Not to fret, there's still a bit left to go, and, on top of that, I've been writing this from the start with every intention to turn it into a series. So you'll be hearing a good deal more from Team Free Will++.
> 
> However, that does bring me to an issue I brought up before, but which I want to address again now that I seem to have more folks' attention: The series needs a name.
> 
> For now, it's temporarily listed under the same name as this fic, but it kind of feels like it could do with something a bit more inspired. Problem is, I'm rubbish at naming things.
> 
> So if you've got any suggestions, I'm all ears.


	20. Chapter 20

“Forget it,” a raised voice came from the door, and Sam, Dean and Crowley's heads all snapped around to see Bobby sitting there, looking none too pleased.

“Bobby...” Dean began, looking halfway between being surprised and trying to appeal to the older man.

“Don't you “Bobby” me, boy,” the latter snapped, sliding his wheelchair into the room and about as close as he could get without running them over. “I leave you idjits alone for one minute, and next thing I know you're dancing to the damn Serpent's tune.”

“It's not like that,” Sam joined in.

“No?” the hunter spat out the word. “Well explain it to me, 'cause from where I'm standing, it sure as hell looks like you were just about to risk the fate of the whole damn world for my sorry feelings.”

The two grown men stood in silence in front of him, suddenly looking more like the two kids he'd told off for watching TV in the middle of the night not long ago.

It didn't need explaining. Not really. The idjits were doing what family was supposed to do – make stupid-ass decisions for the sake of someone they gave a damn about. But as _their_ family, it was his job to yell some sense into them when they did.

“We were just trying to help,” Dean managed.

“You think I want this?” Bobby continued scolding them, his tone softened slightly. “Say you did pull this off, and I got my legs back... You let that demon out and it all goes to hell because of it, it's on our heads. Legs or no legs, d'you think I'd want to live with that, boy?”

Thick silence filled the air, and for a few instants, it was quiet. Too quiet, the older hunter realised.

He turned his eyes to the demon. He was still tied to the chair, and the chair continued to be in an unbroken, fiery trap. But in spite of that, he didn't look the slightest bit nervous any more. His legs were stretched out, his head was held high; and, what was most worrying, with a look that suddenly made the Snake underneath the human-looking meatsuit so much more apparent, he was smiling.

“Something funny?” Bobby asked, although he had a feeling that he wasn't going to like the answer.

The captive made a gesturing motion with his head by way of a response. All three hunters turned to face the window he had indicated.

On the other side, faint, but clearly visible and intensifying by the second, was a pair of round lights. A moment later, Crowley spoke.

“I'd recognise those headlights anywhere.”

 

\------------

Aziraphale's eyes glowed blue with ethereal light, his brow furrowed with strain as he syphoned his still-recovering energy through the crimson runes hastily smeared across the steering wheel and dashboard.

It was embarrassing he hadn't though of it sooner, really. With the amount of time and effort the Principality had seen Crowley invest into that car, it really came as no surprise that the Bentley was practically pulsing with demonic energy. More importantly, it was pulsing with _Crowley's_ energy, which, his recent reading material had informed him, made it the perfect choice for channelling a (highly experimental) trans-dimensional ritual meant to track him down. As he gripped tighter onto the steering wheel and urged the vehicle forward through what simultaneously resembled a vivid, glowing stream of lime jelly and an empty void, he could only hope that the demon would agree.

No sooner had he had that thought, that there was a sudden flash of wood and glass and a loud crash. Then, everything went black.


	21. Chapter 21

Crowley woke in a headache-filled haze, bruised and warmer than he remembered being. He was on his side, and between his bound arms he could feel the bundle of wood which had once made up the chair's backrest. His senses were flooded with heat from all sides, but amidst the haze and warmth, there was also something else he could feel - a sliver of energy returning to him.

As his eyes opened, he flinched back at the sight of a watery puddle nearby. To his right, where he had been sat not long ago was a large, flaming wooden beam, and a small, but important crack in the binding circle it had landed in. The rotten support structure, having been introduced to the concept of fire, had decided to embrace it fully, and was looking well on its way to giving a dusty old curtain (now adorning the floor) the same treatment. Nearby, a number of other items collapsed by the crash were getting similar ideas, and there was a thin shroud of smoke forming throughout the room.

The crash... there had been a crash; there had been shards of glass and bits of wall and roof flying everywhere. Before that, he remembered seeing the Bentley's lights shining through a window. Which meant...

“Aziraphale?” he called out as he tried to will the ropes undone again. This time, after a moment's hesitation, they reluctantly agreed, and the demon scrambled to his feet, rubbing his sore wrists as he scanned the room.

Behind a pile of rubble with flickers of flame quickly finding a foothold at the bottom, he heard movement. He turned to spot Dean on the other side, arm resting on the hood of a rubble covered, but still sleek, black car as he picked himself up, looking about as dazed as the demon. They looked each other in the eye briefly, before swiftly turning their attention to the driver's seat.

The passenger was human-shaped. There was a familiar, but flickering aura Crowley could just about make out through the smoke and heat and his own energy drain; there was also a mop of curly, blood-stained hair on the steering wheel, and no sign of movement.

“Don't just stand there, do something!” the demon yelled without thinking.

To his relief, the man standing next to the Bentley complied, pulling the unconscious angel's arm around around his neck and dragging him out of the vehicle. There was a familiar look of surprise on Dean's face as the Principality's weight leaned against him (the sort of look one would get when preparing to lift an sizeable-looking dumbbell, only to discover it was in fact a foam prop), but it was quickly gone as the man turned his attention to more pressing matters.

“Sam? Bobby?” he cried out once he had a firm grip on the angel.

There was a groan, and Crowley turned to see Bobby, fallen over in a corner, but showing the first signs of coming to. Nearby, Sam was collapsed underneath a heavy-looking support beam and didn't seem in any hurry to wake up.

“They're on this side,” the demon answered in a worried tone, eyes fixed on Aziraphale's fading ethereal glow. The fire was continuing to spread, and, of more immediate concern, so was the smoke; in his current state, Crowley somehow doubted that the angel had remembered not to breathe.

“Get him out of here,” he told the man on the other side of the now-flaming barrier; the latter seemed hesitant.

“You can do bugger all from there,” Crowley snapped impatiently. “I'll get them out. Now go!”

This time, Dean got moving; a split second later, so did he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case you were wondering why the delay, well, a few of reasons:
> 
> 1\. Real life stuff has been keeping me very stressed out, and very, very busy (househunting in general sucks; househunting in a busy capital city sucks a hell of a lot more).
> 
> 2\. Getting closer to the end means I've had to be a bit more careful about tying loose ends.
> 
> 3\. This chapter. Or more precisely, decisions relating to it and stuff that came afterwards. Whereas with a lot of the previous chapters it was just a question of working out what the characters would do in a given situation (which is sort-of straightforward once you get the hang of it), with this one, I suddenly had a lot of variables to make decisions about before even thinking about throwing the characters into the mix. Would Aziraphale get knocked out? Did the boys? Did Crowley? How badly? Is the circle still in one piece? If not, how much of his powers does Crowley get back straight away? Is the shack in one piece? Hang on, there was a fire circle and I just crashed a car into the place, what's going on with that? And finally, with each of these options, how do the characters react, and which option will actually go somewhere interesting?
> 
> In the end, I actually ended up going with something completely different than the ending I thought up when I first started thinking about the story (in a nutshell, Azi drives in and saves the day). I think the way I went with makes things a bit more interesting (also, a bit longer, but hopefully that's a plus). Hope you guys enjoy the end result.
> 
> P.S. Also, multi-chapter update, because that's what happens when I sit and brood about plot for a while.


	22. Chapter 22

“ _Sam? Bobby?”_

Bobby's head was pounding like the mother of all hangovers. The smell of smoke filled the air, the sound of burning and creaking wood made its way to his ears, and he could feel someone impatiently shaking his shoulder.

“Wake up, bless it!”

The first thing he saw was a pair of bright yellow eyes, and the hunter couldn't help but push himself back, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

“Oh, for the love of Something - “ Crowley said in a rushed, yet thoroughly exasperated tone, “if I was going to hurt you d'you think I would've bothered waking you up first?”

He had a point. The hunter settled down and did his best to straighten up. There were fires starting throughout the room, and he briefly wished they hadn't picked an abandoned house made of rotting wood. Not that any of them had expected the damn trap to set itself on fire.

“Look, “ the demon barely stopped for breath, “Dean's getting the a– someone else out and I told him I'd be dragging the two of you out of here. But I can't do that on my own.”

It was then that Bobby noticed Sam, lying motionless underneath a hefty looking pile of rubble – but not hefty enough that a demon should have any trouble with it.

“You tellin' me you can't handle one wooden beam?” Bobby said sceptically.

“Not while that thing's got me bound,” Crowley said, gesturing towards the mostly intact trap (albeit with one clearing in the ring of fire courtesy of a different pile of rubble); “thanks to you lot” was heavily implied. “It's a blessed miracle I could get this far.”

Bobby scoffed. So _that's_ what this was all about. He opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, but the demon spoke before he had a chance to.

“Where did your hurt your back?”

Was the bastard trying to cut a deal _now_?

“You -”

“ **Where?** ”

“Lumbar one to two,” he barked out in annoyance, “Now listen here, you - “

He didn't have a chance to argue any further as Crowley stuck one hand on his lower back, and the hunter caught sight of a flickering, red glow in the corner of his eye.

 

\-------------

Dean rushed out of the hole in the side of the shack and towards the front, the short, sweater-vested man's arm swung over his shoulder. Like hell did he trust what Crowley had told him; but the asshole had had a point – the sooner he got out, the sooner he could get to the other entrance and get his brother and Bobby out. And he wasn't about to leave the poor son-of-a-bitch he was carrying to die in there either.

Although he had to admit, it was hard not to wonder what sort of lunatic's idea of a rescue (Crowley had made it clear as day he'd recognised both the car and the passenger, so chances were the guy wasn't here by accident) involved driving head-first into the side of a building. Hell, maybe if the guy had been a demon, it would've made a twisted amount sense – not caring about injuries and all - but _him_? He couldn't've looked any less demon-like if he tried, and the older Winchester had yet to see a demon that could get knocked out stone-cold like that.

Although, from the moment he'd pulled him out of the wreckage, there had been one weird thing he _had_ noticed - the guy weighed about half of what he should have. He wasn't exactly what you'd call skinny, and yet here Dean was, hauling him around without even breaking a sweat. But working that little mystery out would have to wait.

He dashed around the corner of the ruined shack and rested the injured middle-aged man on the grass next to the Impala. Then, grabbing a rag to cover his face, he rushed to the doorway and nearly charged straight into the figures exiting the building.

In the middle was Sam, who looked like he'd picked the worst time ever for a nap. To his left, holding him up from under his arm and looking like he was having a hard time with it, was Crowley. To the right, on his feet and doing much of the same, but carrying the weight with a bit more dignity, was Bobby.

“Son-of-a...”


	23. Chapter 23

As soon as Crowley caught sight of the injured figure in the grass, he seemed to forget about everything else and made a beeline for him. Sam's unconscious form slumped to one side, and Dean had to rush in to keep him from falling over.

“You stupid, stupid...” he heard the demon mutter half-heartedly, kneeling down beside the curly-haired man and looking him over.

As he led Bobby away from the smoking shack and onto a clear patch where they could lie Sam down, there was a loud crash behind them, and Dean turned to see rubble rolling out of the doorway they had just been standing in. With a sigh of relief, he began lowering his brother to the ground, only to hear a groan of pain from the older hunter's direction.

“Bobby?” Dean said with concern as he watched their foster father sit himself down with a grimace.

“I'll be fine, boy,” the latter answered, glancing towards the demon, “The binding circle's still mostly in one piece inside; I don't think he had enough juice in him to fix me up properly.”

Dean looked back and forth from Bobby, to Sam (whose frowning brow suggested that he was finally coming to), to the demon whose undivided attention was focused on the pudgy figure stretched out on his back in the grass.

He'd be damned if there was anything left that made sense today.  
  
  
\-------------

_No, no, no._

This wasn't good. Aziraphale's aura was flickering worse than a shoddy neon sign. There was a large gash in his forehead where his head had hit the steering wheel, and underneath it, on his cheek, a couple of deep scratches he could have sworn looked like claw marks. One of his wrists was swollen to the size of a small orange, and as he lifted the angel's head it took hardly any effort to feel his rapidly beating heart.

He raised a hand, placing it just above his forehead, and took a deep breath, pulling his demonic essence as far back as he could. Healing humans was easy. But a demon healing an angel? If he did it _just right_ , and it'd be merely uncomfortable. Let too much of what made him a demon slip through, and he'd be doing more harm than good. Harm the angel was in no condition to compensate for.

Fingers shaking, he let all the healing light he could muster pour through his palm. His hand glowed white with the slightest tint of red, and he just about managed to catch a glimpse of the ends of the wound sticking back together before the glow fizzled away.

“Come on, bless it!” he snapped and tried again, only to be met with the same result. He gathered up everything he had left in him, gritting his teeth and barely keeping himself upright as a brighter glow left his hand and then went out moments later, just like the others.

“COME ON!” he yelled in frustration, very nearly collapsing on top of the angel's inert body.

 _This can't be happening._ It may not have been death that Aziraphale was facing, but right now, discorporation was basically handing him over on a silver platter to one _very_ bitter Heaven. And if Upstairs got their hands on him, no amount of clever thinking on Crowley's part would be enough to get him back. They'd put the angel through Manchester-knew-what for the rest of eternity, and there'd be nothing he could do about it.

And what's more, it'd all be _his_ blessed fault. _He_ had been the one to convince the angel to stop the Apocalypse in the first place. It was _him_ the angel was trying to get to and rescue. Heaven, if you really wanted to get into it, you could make an argument for his fault stretching all the way back to the day he'd set things in motion back in Ede-

A brown canvas bag landed on the other side of the wounded Principality, and, moments later, with a limp, so did Bobby.

“Are you just going to sit there and whine,” the old man asked, passing him a pair of bandages, “or are you gonna give me a hand?”


	24. Chapter 24

Bobby did his best to keep his cool as he talked Crowley through bandaging the man's head, all-the-while checking for other injuries and ignoring every ounce of common sense he had left and the fact that he was giving a first aid lesson to a damn _demon_. The demon, for his part, seemed to have a vague idea of what went where, but was on the verge of losing it again, and it was clear as day that he hadn't had to put bandages on someone he gave a damn about a single time in his long-ass life. The fact that the option was even on the table said a hell of a lot about today.

“Tighter, damn it,” he instructed in a firm, but not harsh tone usually reserved for the idjit on the grass, or the one that had just run back into the burning building. “You're trying to stop the bleeding, not keep his ears warm.”

There was bruising on the side of the man's face, and one of his wrists was swollen and an unhealthy-looking shade of purple – dislocated, maybe fractured, but not immediately life-threatening. He felt down his sides looking for other injuries, hoping the swelling on the side of the guy's stomach wasn't internal bleeding (he wasn't a doctor, and the shack they'd picked for the ritual was smack-bang in the middle of Nowhere), then moved on to find a wet patch on his right-hand side and towards the back. 

“Now turn him on his side,” he told the demon once he was done tying the bandage.

“What? Why?” the latter asked confusedly.

“Because he's got blood on his back, idjit,” he answered slightly annoyedly. “Wanna take a guess how it got there?”

He didn't have to ask twice this time, as Crowley swiftly, but gently turned the curly-haired man over and rushed to have a look at his back. There was a large tear in the fabric of his now-bloodsoaked vest, as well as in the similarly blood-soaked shirt underneath.

_Weird place to get hurt in a car crash._

He reached into the bag for a pair of tough-cut scissors, only to see the demon tense up protectively once he had turned around again. What, _now_ he had a problem with the hunter helping him?

“I need to be able to see the damage to do anything about it,” he explained, mildly irritated.

“I'll do it”, the demon told him, grabbing the scissors off him and gingerly cutting open the fabric himself.

As the cloth peeled off to the sides, Bobby noticed two things. One, a pair of symmetrical, vertical scars half way down the man's back, which looked like they'd been there for a while. And two, above the scar on the right, a large, bleeding gash that looked like it had been made by something with claws.

“That's not from the crash,” the demon spelled out the obvious, the worry in his voice now joined by a deep and personal sort of anger. “Someone did this to him.”

“Worry about that later,” he told him, reaching into the bag for more bandages and getting closer. “Right now, we need to stop that bleeding.”

The demon gestured him back, and there was once again a hint of protectiveness about him. Which was all-the-more weird considering how happy he'd been to accept help moments ago.

“There's more damage than you think,” he said by way of an explanation. “You won't be able to stop it unless I get his wing out.”

_Oh, now he's suddenly an exper-_

“Did you just say “wing”?”

 

\-------------  


Sam raised his hand to the spot on his head that felt like it'd had a run-in with a steamroller. It still ached like all hell, but he couldn't feel any blood. That was good. He was lying on grass, which was weird, considering that the last thing he remembered was arguing with Bobby indoors, then a loud crash, right after Crowley had started grinning knowingly at -

_Crowley._

He swung his eyes open and jumped to his feet, stopping to steady himself on a nearby tree as the blood rushed away from his head. _Bad idea._ As his vision cleared, he had a dazed look around. He was outside the shack (which looked worse for wear that the last time he'd seen it), and there was smoke pouring through the door and windows.

He saw no sign of Dean, although he could've sworn he'd heard him by his side while he was coming to. And there were people by the side of the Impala. He saw Crowley, out of his trap, crouching next to a bloody figure the hunter didn't recognise. He tensed up, and had already started going through the list of backup plans when facing a demon unarmed (salt – in the car; pure iron – also in the car; holy water – back inside; exorcism – maybe, if he had a fast forward button...), when he caught sight of Bobby, sitting to the side of said demon. His clothes were stained with ash and dirt and dust, and his look was somewhere between annoyance and surprise, but Sam could see no indication that he was there of anything other than his own accord.

“Bobby? What's going on?” he muttered as he took a few steps away from the tree. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the older man responded, before returning his attention to whatever it was Crowley was doing.

The demon all but ignored him, seemingly too focused on the the unfamiliar figure lying on its side next to him. More specifically, he noticed as he got closer, focused on the bleeding gash in his back, exposed between pieces of torn-open clothing. What he also noticed was Crowley's hand, covered in what looked like a surgical glove and surrounded by a dim, flickering glow, gently reaching into, and yet somehow also passing through, the wound and the surrounding portion of back.

He was about to express his confusion again when the demon's arm carefully pulled back. Speechless, Sam watched as rows upon rows of large brown feathers stretched out before him.

 


	25. Chapter 25

He was only vaguely aware of the two humans present as he stretched out his friend's owl-like wing and inspected the damage. There were deep, bloody gashes carving a path through feathers and skin, and the joint connecting the limb to his back looked as bad, if not worse, than the angel's wrist.

“Don't touch it,” Crowley hissed at Sam as he caught a glimpse of him reaching out towards the tip of the wing (the latter complied unexpectedly quickly), and then turned to take bandages from a very surprised Bobby.

“What the hell...” was all the latter managed. The demon ignored him and began dressing the wound, gritting his teeth as felt Wrath building up inside him.

“Is that...?”

_Someone did this to him._

Someone who had known enough about what to pull and where to twist to pull his wing out, and then had gone and pulled and twisted some more; someone from Heaven, or, more likely, someone from Hell.

“That's a new one on me too.”

And once Aziraphale was alright, he was going to _find_ the bastar-

He was distracted from his train of thought by the sound of struggling, wheezing breathing, and as he turned his attention to the angel's aura, he saw that it had gone from uneven flickering to fading out.

“Angel, hang in there...” he muttered in a panicked rush and turned the Principality to face him, using one arm to keep his back off the ground and ignoring the fizzling and surge of pain when a droplet of blood touched his skin. He placed the other hand over his chest, feeling more helpless than he had felt when he was sat in the middle of the binding circle, as he desperately tried to muster the energy to keep the angel alive and was only rewarded with a dim glow from his fingers, and an almost entirely faded one from his friend's aura.

“Aziraphale! _Aziraphale!_ ”

 

\------------

Aziraphale would have liked nothing more than to answer Crowley as the latter did everything he could to keep him tethered to his dying corporation. He'd never heard the demon sound so desperate; he wanted to comfort him, and tell him that he'd be alright. That they were in a different world, with a different Heaven; and, while he didn't know this for sure – new, unfamiliar Heaven, after all – he wanted to tell him that he'd no doubt be back in a brand new corporation as soon as he'd explained the situation to celestial authorities*, and that he shouldn't be worrying, let alone blaming himself.

But as he hovered unseen above his body, barely hanging on and feeling the final threads tearing loose, there was nothing he could do but watch his friend lead a futile, heartbreaking struggle and wait for Azrael's arrival. He disliked the feeling of helplessness that came with it as much as an angel could, and then moved on to absolutely loathing it.

The next moment, he felt a tingle at the back of his non-corporeal neck, and got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He turned, expecting a familiar, black-clad skeletal figure, only to instead be greeted by a thin, elegant, silver-haired woman in a black business suit.

Based on her expression as her eyes raced back and forth between him and the clipboard in her hands, the confusion was mutual.  
  


*Leaving out a few more details than usual.


	26. Chapter 26

These days, she called herself Lucia. She had been around for a very, _very_ long time - had you asked her (and had she been in a good enough mood to grace you with a response), she would have told you that she didn't think there was anything left in this small corner of the galaxy that would surprise her. Not to say that she was uncaring – in her long watch over Earth, she had seen humans and supernatural creatures alike perform deeds both impressive and moving, and she had on occasion found herself both impressed and moved. But those were par for the course – inspiring, yes, but not unexpected. It would take something completely novel to really catch her off guard. Something, like, for example, the latest charge on her list.

She had seen angels before. She had seen angels in their full, radiant glory, raining divine wrath on whatever it was they'd decided to define as sinners this week. She had seen angels go out in a burst of light. She had seen angels Fall, and, on one or two occasions, angels that had both Fallen and managed to evade their self-righteous brethren for long enough that they had become fully human and had died of old age instead.

What she had not seen before today was a full, living angel showing up on her collection list.

At the very least, she assumed it was an angel. It had four heads, two wings covered in surprised-looking eyes (with two stumps of light in the place she knew secondary wings should have been) and reeked of celestial energy (although at the moment it also looked like it was very near running on empty) – a few quirks here and there, but at the core, practically a textbook Cherub. That is, except for the fact that her senses identified it as something she could – and, more importantly, was due to – Reap.

She looked at the body – bruised, motionless and with a sliver of energy linking it to her charge; no sign of the vessel's original owner. Gripping the body for dear life and trying heartbreakingly hard to pull the soul back, with little to no actual effect was... something. It was in a human-looking vessel, reeked of Hell, and, on the inside, would have looked vaguely like an angel if not for the fact that, where the Grace should have been, there was now what could only be described as the astral equivalent of a photo negative. Thankfully, she told herself with a sigh of relief, not her problem right now – she had her hands more than full with her present charge.

She went through her list* again. _Aziraphael._ In retrospect, maybe she should have seen it coming. But you could hardly blame her for not expecting something new to pop up on the menu after several thousand years of service. Which begged another question.

“And what in His Scythe am I supposed to do with you?”

Problem was, as a rule, souls didn't tend to come with “If found, please return to...” labels. They didn't need to, really – after a few millennia on the job, it wasn't hard to tell a virtuous soul from a damned one or from one destined for Purgatory, for example. It was a simple case of “work out what it is, then stick it in the right box”. But all that went out the window when the thing in question didn't have a box in the first place.

“I beg your pardon?” the supposed angel answered, obviously somewhat offended.

“You heard me,” she told him in the calm, yet scolding tone elderly humans use on small children, “What corner of the Nether did you sprout from?”

Her charge paused, all four heads furrowing their brows as they seemingly made sense of something, which was a lot more than she could claim at the moment.

“I take it,” came the eventual response, this time more composed than the last, “that I am speaking to this Universe's Azrae- er... Embodiment of Death?”

Lucia huffed.

“Well aren't you full of yourself,” she told him in the same reprimanding tone. “Think the Boss Himself is going to come collect your snowflake of a soul in person? Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, darling. This Reaper is all you're going to get.”

“Reaper?”

“Yes, darling, Reaper,” she answered, a hint of irritation in her voice. “Is there an echo in here?”

Maybe it was one of Eve's? Copying angels wasn't her style, but Death knew she'd made weirder things; maybe one of them had managed to get by unnoticed for a few millennia.

“My apologies, er, madam,” her Cherub-like charge offered. “You see, I've only recently come to be in your Universe, and I'm afraid it's all rather new to me.”

The Reaper raised both eyebrows, furrowing her brow in disbelief and confusion. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Did you just...“ she managed eventually.

“It all happened in a bit of a rush, you see,” he continued, barely stopping for non-breath. “I didn't get a proper chance to get properly acquainted with your world before visiting, and it's possible a few local terms are lost on me.”

“You're actually serious?” she asked in disbelief.

“It came as a surprise to me as well, dear,” the sort-of-angel said reassuringly, and Lucia had the feeling that if he could have, he would have been offering her a cup of tea and wrapping her in a blanket to make her feel better. Right now, she might have actually considered it.

Universe-hoppers weren't unheard of, but they weren't exactly a common sight either; universe-hoppers dying here was even rarer (they usually moved on or got pulled back before that happened). Ones that died and didn't fit the bill for any of this world's afterlives?

Had she had one in the first place, this would have been far above her pay grade.

“Just my luck.”

  


*She didn't really _need_ a clipboard – it wasn't even so much a clipboard, as it was an astral extension of the list already present in her mind – but she thought it really completed the look the organisation was going for these days.


	27. Chapter 27

Aziraphale shuffled awkwardly from one ethereal foot to the other, unsure whether to be concerned about the delay, or grateful. The poor dear who, by the looks of things, had been assigned to collecting his soul prodded at her clipboard, seemingly at a loss for what to do next.

“Now, let me see if I've understood this properly,” he offered in his most helpful tone, “You are a... Reaper, yes?”

“That's right,” she conceded, slightly less irritated than she had been moments ago.

“And your duties are...?”

“What do you think, sweetheart?” she answered, but without much fight in her, “I collect the souls of the dead, then I get them to whichever Other Side they belong in.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, raising a finger to his chin pensively.

“This world, it has angels, yes? Presumably a Heaven?” She nodded. “And precisely what would you do if you were to come across an angel from your world during your duties?”

“I don't,” came a rather blunt response. Aziraphale raised one of his brows (right brow, lion head). “Your lot – um, angels – they don't really leave anything behind to Reap. They're sort-of just a soul to begin with – hurting the vessels does a big pile of nothing unless you're looking to damage what's underneath. And if you manage that, well...”

“... then there's nothing left to collect,” the angel finished the sentence with a couple of frowns.

The explanation didn't come as a complete surprise. He knew full well the effect of holy energy on demons back in his world (holy water being only the most readily available), and there were a good few things which he shuddered to think about in detail, but which he knew full well could do the same to an angel. And it only made sense that separate worlds, in separate Universes, however similar, would have their differences. He had simply not expected to be plunged head-first into the middle of them on arrival.

“Purgatory's probably the safest bet, really,” the Reaper took his train of thought and crashed it into a brick wall.

“Pardon?”

“It's where most of the ones that aren't your run-of-the-mill human go.”

That didn't sound much like his world's Purgatory; but it didn't sound like somewhere he was particularly keen on visiting, either.

“Er. My... what was your name, dear?” he stammered.

“Lucia.”

“Lovely name, Lucia,” he told her amicably; she seemed less than impressed. “Lucia, my dear. You mentioned a superior of some sort... Was there any chance you could, er... get in touch for clarifications?”

“Normal day? Something like, well... you, he'd be standing right behind me by now,” she answered, looking over her shoulder almost hopefully. “But thanks to Lucifer being a brat, He's a bit, well... tied up at the moment.”

“Er...” Aziraphale muttered, switching from nervousness back to concern, “Lucifer?”

“One of your Archangels, back in the day,” she explained in a rush, “threw a big temper tantrum when his Dad brought humans into the picture.”

“Yes, yes, I'm familiar with that,” the angel interrupted, “but what does the Adversary have to do with _this_?”

“It's his big day,” she told him.

“Pardon?”

“You know. Armageddon. The Apocalypse. Also known as 'one bratty Archangel thinks he owns the place, while the rest of us have to clean up the mess'. ”

_Dear Father, not again._

“I don't have time for this,” she said, prodding her clipboard aggressively. “Your little Adversary's keeping us busy fixing the messes he doesn't even know he's causing. I wouldn't be half surprised if he's the reason you're here in the first place.”

“I...”

“Look, Snowflake,” he told him sympathetically, “I feel for you, darling. I do. You get dropped here without a clue what's up and what's down, and now you're dead. But you picked a bad time to be here, and I've got far too much on my plate; I just don't have the time for this. Maybe you'll find something in Purgatory you can have a chat to.”

“If you could just...”

“Word of advice? Watch out for the ones with the big mouths.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to object, but didn't get a chance to speak. A strong jolt pulled on his ethereal chest, tugging on it fast and hard; then, everything once again went black.

  
\-------------  


In a quaint little diner, in a small, unremarkable town somewhere at the edge of Paulding County, presently closed due to tornado warnings, a tall, thin gentleman helped himself to another slice of apple pie. He did not seem particularly concerned by a lifeless body that was hanging from a nearby window, or by the havoc the tornado was wreaking just outside. In fact, he did not seem concerned by anything at all.

Attempting to understand what was going on inside his mind would be much like explaining the concept of the colour red to someone who could only perceive the world through smell, using only interpretive dance. However, what is easier to glimpse is that at that precise moment, in one very small corner of his ineffable mind, came the knowledge that a certain pair of brothers, with aid from a number of sources, both of this Universe and another, were once again in the process of turning the natural order of this small planet upside down.

He let out a brief, mildly irked sigh and continued his meal.

At least the pie seemed agreeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally going to have a bigger role for Death, before I realised that thanks to a certain someone *coughLucicough*, he was unavailable at the moment. So I settled for a cameo instead.
> 
> If you're curious how the original was going to pan out, there's a draft [over here](http://launchycat.tumblr.com/post/69448721374/alternate-chapter-27-plus-end-of-ch26-for-dont). It's still rough, and I was still working on getting Death right, but I thought people might find the random bits of worldbuilding/exposition interesting.
> 
> (By the way, [I have a Tumblr](http://launchycat.tumblr.com/); some general fandom stuff, sometimes DYW-related updates, sometimes my own art - including, on one occasion, [a particularly fluffy piece of crack DYW art](http://launchycat.tumblr.com/post/68422792602/so-i-was-talking-to-sam-about-how-dont-you-worry) which was basically just a huge excuse to draw wings, kittens and happy Crowley to make up for all the terrible things I put him through on a regular basis - if any of that sounds like something you might be interested in, feel free to have a peek.)


	28. Chapter 28

He was holding Aziraphale's limp, beaten-up, near-lifeless body, ignoring conversation around him (he caught hint of a new, unfamiliar voice, but didn't care enough to pay attention to it) and just about ready to give up as the healing light he was trying to force through his hand and into the angel's chest fizzled and died out for what felt like the thousandth time.

In the places he could still see glimpses of it, the angel's aura was thinner than paper. He wasn't entirely sure he was even still breathing, and underneath his hand, he could only just barely still feel his struggling heart.

There was a weak thump, then a pause.

Was _this_ what it was all going to boil down to? Risking everything to stop the Apocalypse, by a stroke of sheer luck actually _succeeding_ , only to have it all end a week later, with him helpless and alone, and his one friend facing Divine Wrath for the rest of time?

Another, dimmer thump.

And because of what? A bunch of Witchfinders who hadn't done their homework, and weren't even after either of them in the first place?

_Thump_.

Silence hung heavily in the air, and Crowley froze, waiting – no, _hoping_ for a heartbeat he was beginning to fear would never come.

He closed his eyes tight with a pained frown, hand still pressed against the angel's chest. He cursed the Apocalypse, and he cursed the ineffable plan. If _this_ was what the big plan was all about, then it could all go to Hell, or Heaven, or whatever obviously heartless Void it had been spawned from.

  
  


Like a rubber band snapping back into place, a surge rushed through every fiber of the demon's being, permeating his astral and corporeal forms alike, and he once again felt, if not whole, then at the very least, much more like what he was supposed to be.

Without taking an instant to stop and question it, Crowley rushed every piece of life-aiding force he could muster through his fingertips.

\-------------  
  
  


The smoke inside the shack was thick, and the flames certainly hadn't gotten any smaller. Dean was crouched in the middle of the room next to a now-empty bucket of water, his hand wrapped tightly around the knife still sunk into the floor at the end of a thin, jagged groove hastily carved into the floor and through every circle of the demon trap.

He pulled the blade out and stood up, his other hand holding a cloth against his face. He'd done crazier things, but not by much.

“Don't make me regret this, Crowley,” he muttered to himself as he headed back towards the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... in case any of you were wondering what Dean was up to.
> 
> (Sorry about the lack of replies on comments after the last update, I was worried about giving things away.)


	29. Chapter 29

The trip back out wasn't pleasant – the place wasn't big, but he could hardly see, and the heat definitely wasn't helping; nonetheless, it was definitely an improvement on the way in. No clearing flaming rubble out of the way, for starters; no trying to find stuff scattered across a burning shack, either. And then there was the bright light pouring through the half-shut doorway, practically signposting the way out.

_Wait a second... light?_

_Crap._

Dean had never met any demons that could put on that sort of light show. But he knew what could, and it didn't spell anything good for him, his brother, or Bobby. He sprinted towards the exit, very nearly getting hit by a piece of falling ceiling in the process, and slammed the door open, demon knife gripped tightly in his hand. For all the good that'd do.

Whatever it was that Dean Winchester had expected to find on the other side of that door, this wasn't it. 

There was a massive wing – an actual, honest-to-God, physical wing –, with feathers the size of his leg and a brown, striped pattern that looked like it could've belonged to a really well-fed owl, stretched out on the grass in front of him and sticking out of the back of the guy he'd dragged from the car wreck not long ago. And there was Crowley, eyes glowing red and leaning over the motionless figure, a blindingly bright light between the his hand and the other's chest. For a moment, Dean thought it was bursting from the guy's chest, and the hunter had to wonder whether he should be grateful or worried that the demon had seemingly taken down what looked like one weird-ass angel. He looked at Sam and Bobby - neither of them particularly scared or worried, but both completely slack-jawed, and back at the other two. And then, something (well, several somethings) clicked.

The light was coming from Crowley's hand.

The holy oil. The knife not sparking when it cut him. Being around since Adam and Eve*. The goddamn _name._

“Son-of-a-bitch...”

  
  


*He'd already stopped to wonder just how a _demon_ could be responsible for tempting _the first humans_ , but it wasn't as if this would've been the first time the Bible had got it wrong.

\-------------  


 

Aziraphale gasped, taking in the air as if he'd been holding his breath for the last century, and snapped his eyes open.

His vision was still hazy, but he recognised the two boys he'd seen standing next to his body earlier, their jaws looking just about ready to introduce themselves to the floor. There was a third, unfamiliar one with an equally baffled expression on his face not far behind them. And next to him, kneeling beside him, with one arm supporting his back and the other resting wearily on his chest, there was Crowley.

He looked like he'd been through... well, something worse than Hell*. His eyes were red (and not just from the dimming glow lingering around them), his face streaked with a couple of watery smears, as well as a thin, red cut, and his clothes were crumpled and covered in soot. He was breathing heavily, exhausted but relieved, and the Principality had the feeling he was only one strong breeze away from collapsing altogether.

Aziraphale smiled dazedly and opened his mouth to speak, only to find himself wrapped in the demon's arms and pulled into an embrace so tight the air raced out of his lungs before he had the chance.

“Good... to see... you too, dear,” he managed with some difficulty. Crowley, remembering himself, pulled back to look at him and met his reply with a frown and a raised voice.

“Angel, what in bloody Heaven were you _thinking_?” he asked irritatedly, pitch raising slightly as it reached the final syllables. 

“Well...”

“Crashing my blessed car into a blessed wall? _That_ was your brilliant idea of a rescue?”

“It's a bit more compli-”

“You know what? I don't think I even want to hear it,” the demon cut him off again, throwing his arms up into the air and throwing himself onto the grass behind him. “Not until you've bought me a blessed good drink and something decent to eat, at the very least.”

The angel smiled again and nodded, flexing his fingers as he inspected his no longer injured wrist, then ran them through his hair and pulled a blood-stained bandage off of his forehead, feeling the smooth skin underneath. The old boy had given it all he could and then some, and it showed – Aziraphale had a feeling it wasn't simply Sloth's sake he was lying down for.

“You're an _angel_?” the young man he hadn't recognised broke the silence, relaxing his grip on what looked like a very sharp knife.

“No, arsehole, he's just some other winged entity I call that for shits and giggles.”

“Crowley!” the Principality interrupted scoldingly, folding his wing in self-consciously and flexing it.

“Well, excuse me if I forget my manners with the prats who nearly _killed me,_ ” the demon barked, and as the angel winched his wing into his back with a flinch (one wing out felt awkward and unseemly – not to mention the number it did on his balance –, and stretching the other one out would have have been a bit too close to vanity for his liking), he had to stop and wonder whether the statement was as over-the-top as the rest of the demon's mood at the moment.

“He's also the 'prat' who just ran into a burning building to save your pal's sorry ass,” the older of the three joined in before he had a chance question the accusation further.

“You what...?” Crowley trailed off, sitting up and turning his head to look at the one standing further back.

It was only then that Aziraphale got a look at the other side of Crowley's neck. The skin was shrivelled and blackened, patches of it oily and blistered, while others were barely recognisable as skin at all.

“You didn't...” the Principality glared (thankfully, figurative) daggers at the man, mustering up all the strength inside of him (not much, but enough) and standing up.

  
  


*Although going through Hell did have a habit of leaving him in a sour mood and with a craving for good wine and five-star meals.

 


	30. Chapter 30

“You're welcome, by the way,” Dean answered Crowley, wiping soot off his face and managing to look defensive and guilty all at once. Crowley, for his part, had moved on to silent surprise.

He hadn't had a chance to stop and wonder just how it was that his powers had returned to him all of a sudden, but if he'd had to guess, the man in front of him charging into a flaming shack to break the seals wouldn't have been his first hunch. Not without any leverage left on his part and with them fully aware of precisely who and what he was, at any rate.

“And anyway, I was talking to you.”

Crowley took a few moments to stare at him in confusion before finally putting two and two together.

“ _Was_ an angel,” the demon corrected him, less eager to start a fight than he had been moments, but nonetheless keen to move the conversation on. “Long time ago.”

“So you Fell?”

The guy sure didn't make not picking an argument easy.

“It's kind of a requirement for being a demon, yeah,” he snapped quietly, torn between telling the man just where he could shove his no-brainer questions and recognising him as the reason the angel was still breathing, “Am I gonna have to tell you about the birds and the bees too?”

Dean looked like he was about to argue back, before being tensing up warily, seemingly distracted by something behind him. It was only then that Crowley realised the angel had stood up.

Aziraphale was stretched to his full height (a good few inches shorter than the demon's), sunlight shining through his blood-soaked strands of hair a bit brighter than it should have been. His features were stern, his eyes glowed a light blue, and for once it took no stretch of the imagination to recognise that underneath the torn clothing and questionable fashion sense was the former Angel of the Eastern Gate, Cherub and warrior of Heaven.

And he was heading straight towards Dean.

“ _Holy water_?” he said with perfect clarity, voice no more than a whisper; it didn't need to be. The man tightened his hold on the knife, seemingly unsure whether dropping it or using it to defend himself was a better idea.

The decision was made for him as, with one swift motion, Aziraphale closed distance and the weapon hit the ground.

“What gives you the right?” he uttered in a low, composed growl, holding onto Dean's formerly-knife-wielding hand and pushing the taller man up against a wall, looking no less threatening for having to look up at him.

Sam and Bobby seemed both unsure what to do, and eager to do it as Bobby jumped to his feet with a cringe and Sam eyed the black car behind where the angel had been lying. Quicker to react (or perhaps simply more familiar with the threat), Crowley also leaped to his feet, pushing himself between the furious angel and the human.

“Easy there, angel,” he said with the calm of someone who wasn't staring down Divine Wrath on legs, motioning the other two men to keep any bright ideas to themselves; to his relief, they backed off.

Also to his relief, Aziraphale, took a few steps back, seemingly taken by surprise by the demon's choice of action.

“They're idiots, okay?” Crowley hastily continued, giving Dean a firm “don't argue” look as he heard him clear his throat to speak, “they didn't know what they were doing. They weren't even trying to get to me in the first place.”

“That shouldn't be...” the angel trailed off, the glow in his eyes dimming as he knitted his brows in a puzzled frown.

“Though what I _really_ want to know,” the demon rambled on when the immediate danger seemed to have passed, “is how exactly you got your hands on a binding ritual tailor-made for me without having the first clue who I was.”

The angel frowned further, deep in Manchester-knew-what thoughts, before turning to look at Dean, waiting for an answer. Dean hesitated for a few seconds before conceding a reply.

“Jesse,” was his response.

“Pardon?” the angel interjected politely, with hardly a hint that he was the same person that had held held the well-built man up against a wall moments prior.

“The Antichrist,” Bobby's voice came from behind them, “Well, sort-of. No relation to Lucifer, 'far as we know.”

Crowley huffed, about to tell them yet again just how many facts they had a knack for getting wrong in the span of one short sentence, only to be cut off by Aziraphale.

“I... think you're all going to want to sit down for this...”

 

\--------------  


Nearby, Lucia put on a displeased frown, completely ignored by the living (even though at least two of them _should_ have been able to see her).

She'd been just about to give the Cherub the “stay or go” speech (weird, alternate dimension soul or not, she was obligated to give him the choice; though if she was perfectly honest, she _had_ been trying to prep him for a very quick “go”), only to find herself talking to thin air as her charge was snatched from in front of her and pulled back into his vessel.

It was only then that she'd paid notice to the living humans in the area and found herself recognising two of them. She'd immediately let out an exasperated sigh.

_Figures the bloody Winchesters would have something to do with this._

With another frown (and perhaps the faintest ghost of a smile as she watched the reunion unfold in front of her), she jotted something down on her list and made her way to her next charge. They were someone else's problem now.


	31. Chapter 31

“So... you're from an alternate reality?” Sam echoed back to the angel, who had introduced himself as Aziraphale (he had to wonder if all angels in his world had names that weird). Parts of the explanation had managed to go over his head (and everyone else's too, if the frowns, titled heads and confused looks reminiscent of Cas were any indication), but he'd managed to get the basics, at least.

Aziraphale nodded with a calm smile, peering over the pair of oval-shaped glasses now resting on his nose (the spare pair he kept in his shirt pocket had miraculously survived the crash); that, and the fact that they were sat in a half-circle around him only made him remind Sam that much more of a teacher waiting for questions from the class.

“Nevermind that,” Crowley cut in, sounding none-too-pleased and furrowing his brow behind his new sunglasses (he'd snapped a new pair out of thin air half way through the explanation and had earned a pointed glare from the angel for interrupting), “we're in the middle of another blessed Apocalypse?”

“It certainly seems that way, dear,” the bespectacled man answered, mirroring his friend's displeased expression.

“Oh, come on!” the... fallen angel(?) said exasperatedly, pushing himself to his feet, and although he could no longer see them, the hunter had the distinct feeling he was rolling his eyes. He still couldn't quite get himself to trust something that called itself a demon, but when it came to this at least, Sam could sympathise. One end of the world was more than they wanted to deal with, too.

“We're not getting them out of this one,” the dark haired man said a moment later, pacing through the grass and gesturing, and from the way it was said, the younger Winchester had to wonder if it was a statement or a wish.

“My dear...”

“Don't you 'dear' me. We're going back.”

“Crowley...”

“Look where the last time got us!”

“It's not that simple...”

“Being on the run from Above and Below has got to be better than going head first against them. Again!”

“We can't go back.”

Crowley stopped.

“What... what do you mean we can't go back?” he asked, voice dimming to a whisper.

“Not... immediately, at any rate,” the angel clarified, earning a nervous stare from his friend, “I was _going to_ set up a proper anchor point, you see, make sure we could get back in one piece...”

Crowley peered over the top of his sunglasses, looking very much like he didn't where the news was heading.

“It all happened in a rush, you see,” Aziraphale blurted out, “...and I hadn't the slightest clue where you were, or what state you were in, and then there was that run-in with one of your former colleagues – tall bloke, eyes like hellfire, has a mean grip...”

“You ran into _Hastur_?” the former angel asked, surprised and worried in equal measure.

“He didn't seem in a mood for proper introductions,” the other answered, rubbing his no-longer-swollen wrist, and Sam thought he caught a glimpse of Crowley gritting his teeth. “I was in a bit of a hurry to get away after that, and well... you know how that ended.

“We both need time to recover, and we'd need something with a strong connection to us to hone in, not to mention that the spell needs some fine tuning, to put it lightly... Given time, maybe...”

“You haven't _got_ time,” Bobby pitched in after he'd heard enough; both the supernatural entities turned to look at him. “Not if Lucifer has anything to say about it.”

“Oh yeah, that's the other good news,” Crowley snapped, the sarcasm doing nothing to hide the nervousness in his voice, “you've already got _him_ walking the Earth.”

Sam swallowed guiltily, but it didn't seem to do much to help with the lump in his throat.

“You said you stopped yours before it kicked off, right?” Dean changed the subject – whether to avoid pressure on his brother or to avoid thinking about it himself, Sam wasn't sure. “You've gotta have something. How'd you pull the plug on it?”

“Adam.”

“Who?”

“Our Antichrist. Thanks to a bunch of cock-ups, he ended up being raised without the first clue who he was. Then the Big Day came, he decided he liked the place and hit the reset button. Put everything back the way it was, told us not to-”

Crowley froze, realisation making its way across his features.

“Not to what?” Dean asked.

“The little bastard!” the fallen angel said by way of a response, muttering under his breath and giving the ground underneath him a heavy stomp. Sam had never heard someone say blessings so angrily before.

“... dear?”

“'I know all about you two. Don't you worry'...

“You said your Antichrist was involved, right?” Crowley turned to face the hunters. They all nodded. “And you (he turned back to Aziraphale) said this shouldn't be possible in the first place.”

“You're not suggesting...”

“They had my blood, angel.” Sam and Bobby exchanged confused looks; for some reason, Dean didn't seem as surprised. “Enough to draw a bloo- blesse- _something_ seal. How else do you explain that?

“I...”

“If our Antichrist had nothing to do with this, I'm snogging Michael himself.”  
  


 

\------------

Back in the sunny orchard which may or may not have had air, two boys, one dark-haired and wide-eyed, wearing a red and gray jumper and some tracksuit bottoms, the other blonde and curly haired, looking much like a young greek god clad in jeans and a T-shirt, were enjoying a pair of juicy (and presumably real), red apples.

“How are you so sure it's all gonna be okay?” Jesse asked his new friend.

“It's like reading a book, see,” Adam answered his counterpart, taking a large bite out of the bright red apple, and waiting to swallow it before continuing. “You can spend a whole while reading it to get the whole story...”

“You looked ahead a few pages,” the other boy finished the train of thought in perfect understanding. Adam smiled.

“Can't be that bad if it turns out alright in the end, can it?”


	32. Chapter 32

The Impala drove into Sioux Falls slower than usual, a black, 1926 Bentley that looked like it had seen better days towed along behind it. The second car was empty (although that hadn't stopped it from steering around corners), covered in ash and burn marks (again), and the front of it looked less like the section of the vehicle used to store an engine and more like a modern art impression of an accordion (as it turned out, crashing through the wall between Universes not only left a mark, but, as luck would have it, left a mark that proved rather resilient to miracles).

The black Chevrolet rolled to a stop in front of what advertised itself as “Marv's Body Shop”. Sam had looked up auto repair places in the town before they'd got going, only to lose his smartphone to a curious Crowley soon afterwards. Overall, though, the fact that they'd skipped ahead 13-something years from their universe didn't seem to phase either of the two newcommers that much (“I've had longer naps,” had been the fallen angel's only comment).

After a lot of protesting ( _too much_ protesting, Bobby felt), Crowley had agreed to help stop the Apocalypse again. Aziraphale, too, had conceded that it was probably the right thing to do, and that they didn't precisely have much choice, anyway (Sam couldn't help but notice how joining one of the two other sides didn't even come up as an option, but decided not to test their luck by mentioning it). Where Crowley had drawn the line, however, was working in the same room as the three “hunters” (“Not a stroke of creative genius, but sounds Heaven of a lot better than Witchfinder, I'll give you that.”). Something about... oh yeah, holding a knife up to his throat and very-near-killing him. He could just about live with the idea of working with them long distance, though. Very long distance. Maybe they'd see how this world's London had been doing without them.

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye, then,” Aziraphale told them with a smile.

“No tears shed here,” Crowley said as he stepped out of the car and began unfastening the tow cables.

“Pleasure meeting you,” Aziraphale nodded serenely as he reached for the door handle himself, “Oh, and boys?

“Should we have the fortune of crossing paths in the future... if you lay another finger on Crowley, well - look up Gomorrah.”

And with a final smile he strolled out of the car, leaving behind only nervous silence.

“Dude...” Dean muttered after a pause, “...did we just get threatened by a chubby librarian in a sweater-vest?”

“Pretty much, yeah...” Bobby answered about as quietly.

  
  
\-------------

In a dump in the middle of Bloody Nowhere, a different Crowley decided to take a break from doing bugger all and check up on the Winchesters. He set up the ritual on a dusty table, lit up a few candles and listened in...

Static.

He took a sip from some cheap excuse for a whiskey, then spat it out in frustration and disgust. The Winchester's pet angel must've decided to pay them a visit again.

Just his luck.


	33. Chapter 33

Cable tucked under one arm, Crowley made his way back around and opened the door on Bobby's side, holding out the rolled-up length of towing equipment.

“You coulda' just stuck it in the trunk,” Bobby answered disgruntledly, trying to pay no heed to the worsening pain in his back before eventually reaching out to grab the item. As Crowley's fingers brushed against his, there was no flash of light, no red glow, but Bobby nonetheless felt the sharp pain vanish into nothing.

“I...” the older hunter managed.

“You would've been shopping for a new chair by tomorrow,” Crowley told him matter-of-factly. ”I keep my word.”

“...Thanks.”

“Crowley,” Dean called out, before hesitating for a moment as the demon leaned down, arms rested on the hood, and pointed his gaze at him expectantly. “Sorry. About, you know...”

“You saved the angel's feathery arse,” he answered with a frown, “so even though it was your fault he was there _in the first place_ , I'm gonna be generous and call it even this time.”

He then turned his head to face the back of the seat Sam was in, and put on a smile that spelled nothing good. The expression didn't seem to escape Aziraphale, who rushed back to his side.

“You, on the other hand...” Crowley said with a knowing look, “you're fair game.”

“My dear, I hardly think it's-”

“Drove. my car. into. a wall.” the demon interrupted, and the Principality went silent.

Crowley straightened up until his head was out of view, stretched out a hand, snapped his fingers, then walked away.

“Pick on someone your own size next time.”

  


\-------------

From where Bobby was sitting, everything looked exactly the same, and the older hunter had to wonder if the guy had just been messing with them. That is, until moments later, when a voice, familiar, but in a pitch he hadn't heard in a good fifteen years cried out from the seat in front of him.

“Crowley, you son-of-a-bitch!”

“Language, Sammy,” Dean laughed as he looked down on his now-pre-teen brother.

“Change me back!” the (much) younger brother yelled, leaning out of the window in his too-large clothes.

“You'll grow out of it,” Crowley said with a chuckle, “by the end of the week, if you're lucky.”

The demon paused to stare at a shop window, seemingly distracted by something.

“You think that's bad?” Bobby joked, “I had to sit on the phone with Rufus for ten whole minutes.”

Dean laughed again. Bobby was back on his feet, Sam, well... had a little problem, but it didn't sound permanent, and they had two more pairs of hands on deck – how reliable, he wasn't sure, but he'd take what he could get. All things considered, things could've turned out a lot worse.

“Ten minutes' worth of not-a-clue before he finally dug up the one name – Gadri-”

“Bobby, don-”

Outside, Crowley cringed, letting out a short cry of pain as the unfinished (but still painful) word reached him. A moment later, his eyes were wide, not from pain, but from surprise – a feeling shared by Aziraphale, as well as Bobby and Dean.

There had been another cry mirroring his own.

In the car, Sam still cringed at the unexpected pain which had pulled at his insides, tearing at something that wasn't there.

Crowley – at least it looked like him, if he'd suddenly lost around ten years – leaned his head down through the window, and eyed each of them in turn with a frown.

“What in bloody Heaven did you do?”

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. 33 chapters and 25k words later, Don't You Worry is a wrap.
> 
> "But... cliffhaaangeeer," you may cry - to that, my inner Crowley will simply chuckle. The rest of me, however, figures that now's a good time to remind you that the road for Team Free Will ++ isn't over just yet. The series (which, in fine SPN tradition, I've decided to dub "Hell or High Water" after [a certain song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qcj3qdmod4k) or [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DG3Oln7sgjU)) isn't over just yet, and, while I'm certainly going to give myself a short break, I've already got plans for the next story, so something should be ready for you folks to read before too long.
> 
> It's been an awesome trip so far, and I wouldn't have been able to keep going for this long without your support. So, to everyone who provided feedback or promoted the fic, to everyone who left a comment or kudos, to the friends who cheered me on and on a couple of occasions helped me brainstorm - thank you. This fic wouldn't exist today without you.
> 
> I'll be seeing you again in the new year. Happy Holidays!


End file.
